


Syndrome

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angry John, Angst and Feels, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Big Brother Mycroft, Comfort/Angst, Contradicting Thoughts and Emotions, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of Adoption, Emotional, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional Sherlock, Emotionally Compromised, Emotions, Gen, Hormonal Sherlock, Medical Conditions, Mpreg, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Parental Lestrade, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Psychological Drama, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unwanted Pregnancy, Upsetting Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a rare condition/disorder where he has both female and male reproductive organs, and things don't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Male Pregnancy fanfiction. I have never been one for it (unless you count when the Sims 2 allowed me to knock up men with adorable alien babies and I did so...a lot...a lot a lot) because it's a strange thing. Interesting, but strange, and personally difficult to write and get around.  
> Normally it's centred around the Omega Verse(?), which has it's own explanations of some sort as to why and how and such, but sometimes it's just unexplained bum sex that somehow creates a baby.
> 
> Now, men with babies--Wait, let me start over, fictional men with fictional babies has always been overly adorable to me, and it makes me squeal with glee whenever my favourite fictional male holds or cares for a fictional baby, so I have indeed read some Mpreg, as well as other fanfictions with certain male characters being dads the normal way, but I haven't read much and I've not had the urge to write my own...until now, that is.
> 
> I wanted to give it a try, and instead of using what I've seen others use, I thought to use good ol' medical knowhow--well, I researched if it was possible for a man to have a womb via Google.  
> I am not hugely smart, nor am I a medical...person, so a lot of what I write can and will be wrong. However, I have come across a disorder recently, that I have used in this story.  
> I shall link you to it now, so you can read and possibly use this excuse in your own writings?  
> [Persistent Müllerian Duct Syndrome](http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/persistent-mullerian-duct-syndrome)  
> [Diagram](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2015/02/07/256CD4BD00000578-0-image-a-16_1423312142640.jpg)
> 
> It obviously comes with complications and all that, but in fanfiction, obviously, those types of things can be easily thrown out of the window! If you can make a man go into heat, then you can ignore pesky complications, surely!
> 
> Any-who, please give it a read and let me know what you think. I may carry it on, but I may not, it depends on the feedback really and if I think I can make something good out of it.
> 
> A warning though, this doesn't start off all that happy and both Sherlock and John are in a bit of a mess. There is also mention of abortion, and Sherlock snapping insensitive gibberish (Let's forgive him though, it's the hormones).

Sherlock had persistent Müllerian duct syndrome. Sherlock stared at the scans in front of him and frowned, leaning on the table to get a better look, his lower eyelids tensing as he narrowed his eyes and traced the shapes with his fingers. Sherlock had a uterus, and not only that, but fallopian tubes as well. Interested, he pulled another scan closer, partnering it up with another. Sherlock had both male and female reproductive organs.

“I wonder if it works,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, noticing the uterus was in his pelvis.

“What?”

Sherlock turned in time to see Molly walk in holding a coffee, and quickly gathered up the scans and documents, slipping them inside a folder, “Nothing.”

Molly smiled wonkily and handed over the coffee with a meek shuffle, “So, get everything you needed?”

Sherlock shot her a smile and glanced down at the folder in his hands, “Yes.”

***

John sat up when Sherlock suddenly bolted from the room, stumbled into the bathroom and heaved loudly into the toilet bowl. The sound of retching and heaving was deafening and John winced, walking to peer into the bathroom to see Sherlock bent over and shuddering.

“You okay?” John asked in concern, stepping closer when Sherlock waved him away and vomited the second later, clutching the toilet in a white-knuckled grip.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock grunted, spitting and lunging forward to retch once more.

John huffed and kneeled beside him, rubbing his back, “Obviously,” John muttered sarcastically, tilting his head to look at Sherlock’s face. “I don’t think it was anything you ate, was it?”

Sherlock shook his head and sat back, swiping his mouth, “No.”

“Well, maybe you have a stomach bug? I heard you being sick yesterday as well, didn’t I? A stomach bug is going around; perhaps I brought it back with me from the surgery? Do you feel feverish?”

Sherlock shook his head and then slowly tensed, jumping to his feet and swaying, “What’s the date?”

John frowned and followed, stabilising Sherlock with a hand on his arm, “Careful!”

“The date? What’s the date?” Sherlock snapped, pushing John back and stomping out of the bathroom.

John watched him go, flushed the toilet with a sigh, and walked into the kitchen to fill a glass of cold water. Sherlock was staring at the calendar hung on the wall, his fingers twitching as they shifted over the days nervously, but he took the glass without looking and downed half the water before he put it down, grabbed his coat, and slipped on his shoes.

“What—where are you going?” John asked, bemused.

“Out,” Sherlock replied shortly, and rushed down the stairs and out of the flat with a flap of his coat.

John blinked owlishly and huffed, gesturing to the empty flat, “Okay…”

When Sherlock returned he was mumbling under his breath and looked nervous and panicked, his face pale and his hands fluttering between combing roughly through his hair, rubbing down his face and tugging at his clothes. John placed down his cup of tea and stood in concern, watching Sherlock shrug off his coat and pace the room irritably. 

“Sherlock?” John asked worriedly, unsure as he stepped closer.

“I’m such an idiot! I completely and utterly forgot and now…now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what this means. Is this a good thing? Why is it a good thing? It’s not. It’s not good. Why did I decide to test this out? How did I forget that I—Oh. Oh! A case. It was a case, the case with the bloated corpse without internal organs!” Sherlock rambled, ignoring John and pacing more, and then suddenly turning on the spot and covering his mouth. John held out a hand in comfort and rushed after Sherlock as he sprinted to the bathroom to throw up again.

John pressed a hand in the middle of Sherlock’s shoulder blades and leaned over in worry, “Sherlock…Sherlock what’s going on?”

After heaving another three times, Sherlock gasped and turned to glance up at John with a tight expression, “I’m pregnant.”

John blinked and pulled away, “No.”

“Yes,” Sherlock grunted, turning to vomit once more.

“Sherlock, men can’t get--”

“I have both!” Sherlock shouted into the toilet.

“Both?”

“Sexual organs. I have both,” Sherlock said groggily, spitting and then leaning back as he flushed the toilet and avoided John’s gaze. “I found out five and a half weeks ago. I wanted to…to test if both worked so I…” 

John turned away with a frustrated sigh, “Bloody hell, Sherlock…” he eyed him and ripped off some toilet paper to clean the sick from Sherlock’s chin idly. “Maybe you’re not?”

“I am. I checked. Thoroughly,” Sherlock groaned, taking the toilet paper thankfully and then turning to swill his mouth out with water and brush his teeth.

“Well…shit.” John exhaled. “Why did you think it was a good idea? I’m assuming you have persistent Müllerian duct syndrome? Bilateral cryptorchidism?”

Sherlock shook his head and turned to face John again, “No. Both my testes are descended. I know it’s normally one or non, but with me, everything is perfectly regular and normal…apart from the female reproductive organs.”

“How did you…do it then?” John asked, curious despite himself. “I mean, did you—Oh God, have you fathered your own child?”

Sherlock shifted his weight, lowered his gaze and then walked from the bathroom, “No.”

John trailed after him suspiciously, “No? Whose did you use? Whose is it? Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me!”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I need to get rid of it,” Sherlock growled, pacing again and kicking the coffee table aside roughly.

“Sherlock. Tell me. Who’s the ‘donor’?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock when he shook his head and wouldn’t answer. “Sherlock, tell me. Now.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, grimaced and then shot John a meek and apologetic look, “You.”

“…Me. You…you used my…how did you even get—No, don’t answer that,” John hissed, glaring at Sherlock in a hot seething fury. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock snapped, roughly jerking his arm out of John’s tightening grasp. “I need you to get rid of it.”

John turned away angrily, then turned back and pointed at Sherlock furious and panicking, “Do you even know what happens in the fifth week? Huh? Do you? The baby’s brain and central nervous system are growing, as well as the heart!”

“So?” Sherlock snarled, though he paled further and took several steps backwards, covering his face with a trembling hand. “Just get rid of it. Women do it all the time, at any time of the pregnancy. They don’t care.”

“That’s not true,” John glared. “It takes a lot to have an abortion. It’s an emotional time. It’s not a walk in the bloody park!”

Sherlock dropped into his chair heavily, “It was a mistake. I just wanted to see if it would work. I was never going to let it go on for this long…but I got distracted and now…now I’m…”

“Pregnant,” John finished, still seething. “How could you do this? Not only to me, but to yourself? Do you have any idea--?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock all but shouted, and leapt to his feet, stalking to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

John scowled deeply at the chair Sherlock had just occupied, pinched the bridge of his nose and then left the flat without another word, slamming the door behind him also.

***

Once John went back to the flat he slowly walked to Sherlock’s bedroom door, stared at it, and then knocked gently, “Sherlock?” he whispered, sighing and knocking again when it earned no response. “Sherlock, we need to talk. Can I come in?”

“No.” Was the muffled response.

John rolled his eyes. “We need to talk.”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, yes it does, Sherlock Holmes,” John barked. “It has everything to do with me, you made sure of that when you stole my--” John cut himself off and after taking a breath, opened Sherlock’s door and stepped inside.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, shoulders slumped, but they straightened when John entered. “We have nothing to talk about. I’m going to get rid of it tomorrow afternoon.”

John shut the door behind him, walked to the bed and sat down slowly with a sigh through his nose, “Are you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, looking at his interlinked hands on his lap.

John stared at him and then looked away, sliding his own hand over Sherlock’s warmly, “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “I can’t believe you did this. Even if you were going to keep an eye on it, why did you risk it? Something could have gone horribly wrong. You could have damaged something. You could have been hurt in some way.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched and then suddenly downturned and Sherlock’s entire face crumpled. John frowned in panic and before Sherlock could wrench himself away, John wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin.

“Let me take a look at you tomorrow. Check you over,” John murmured. “I’m still mighty angry with you but…I want to know if you’re okay. If everything is…well, I’d just feel better if you let me take a look?”

“You mean an ultrasound?” Sherlock mumbled, voice thick with emotion that he tried unsuccessfully to hide.

“Yes. Amongst other things. I’d want to take some blood and--”

“Can you get rid of it afterwards?” Sherlock asked. “I can just take some medication, can’t I? Mifepristone and prostaglandin, correct?” 

John nodded against Sherlock’s crown and exhaled, “Yes. There are many different ways…some of them impossible given the fact that you don’t have a vagina. We can talk about them tomorrow, if you like.”

“I feel so tired,” Sherlock rumbled after a few long minutes of silence. “…I’m sorry, John. I only used your sperm because I--”

“I don’t really want to know,” John interrupted, forcing a nervous laugh and rubbing Sherlock’s back. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, yeah? For now, why don’t you get some sleep?”

Sherlock inclined his head wearily but didn’t move, and John huffed, manhandling Sherlock under the covers with a few grunts and a half-hearted glare. He peered down at Sherlock as he tucked the sheets around him, but Sherlock was avoiding his gaze and dipped his chin to hide his expression. John patted Sherlock’s arm awkwardly and exited the room, staring at the bedroom door once he had closed it behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Right, take your shirt off and just pop up on the table and I’ll…I’ll be with you in a moment,” John told Sherlock as they stepped into his office. 

Sherlock looked around uneasily, still feeling sick and tired, and wandered slowly towards the high cushioned couch as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. He stared at his abdomen blankly, fingers flinching as he brought them to the skin beneath his navel, and then looked away with a sneer and a scowl, throwing his shirt down roughly.

“I’m going to do some routine tests first, then I’ll take an obstetric sonogram and we’ll…check out what’s going on,” John explained calmly, his smile impersonal but somehow friendly. It was the clinical detached Doctor routine and Sherlock hated it.

“You don’t have to mollycoddle me, John. I’m not one of your patients. I don’t need this palaver, this…act,” Sherlock spat, ducking his head when John walked over to take his blood pressure.

“Fine,” John replied coldly. “Blood test next.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock stared at one corner of the room, pressing his lips together when John pressed the needle into his arm, and only looked back when John moved away and pulled a white, bulky machine close and turned it on, typing silently on the keyboard.

“Lie back,” John ordered distantly, waiting until Sherlock did before taking a paper towel and curling it around the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers briskly, tugging the trousers down to expose more of Sherlock’s stomach and then squeezing some cold gel onto Sherlock’s skin. “Hold as still as you can.”

Sherlock gripped the edge of the table and watched as John pressed a few more buttons, unhooked a transducer from the machine, and spread the gel over Sherlock’s lower stomach with it, adding pressure slightly. The monitor was faced away from Sherlock but Sherlock didn’t care, and turned his head aside, fixing his gaze on the floor and tracing the marks of shoes and wheels, picking up on several hairline cracks and a stain that looked to be dried vomit that was at least five days old.

“Huh, you weren’t kidding,” John mumbled under his breath leaning forwards with interest as he adjusted the probe and pressed down at an angle. “That’s pretty impressive. Not really seen persistent Müllerian duct syndrome personally, but a lot of what is known and shown isn’t—oh…”

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes, “What?”

John tilted his head and squinted, digging the probe in further as he shifted forward and pressed a few more buttons, using the ball mouse attached to single out something on the screen. 

“John?” Sherlock frowned, tensing to get up.

“Stay still a moment,” John told him seriously. “I’m just checking the size of the baby…”

“I don’t care about its size,” Sherlock bit angrily, ignoring the flush of nausea and panic and pushing up on his elbows. “Look, you’ve checked me over, you see that its there, that I wasn’t lying and that I was in fact right about everything. Now all I want is--”

“There’s two,” John interrupted, voice shaking as he adjusted the roll mouse again. “I…I can’t be sure…and it is fairly common for twins to be conceived, but for only one to develop. It’s called vanishing twin syndrome...”

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and was unable to stop the sudden tremors that shook through him violently, “Two?”

John finally looked over at him with a lined and rattled expression and after a moment turned the monitor around with a clenched jaw, marking out two strange looking grey smears with the mouse. Sherlock stared at them, his focus zeroing in on what looked to be the fluttering of a heartbeat. Sherlock’s own heart stuttered and then ached with a thundering pulse at the sight, spots appearing in his vision as he glared suddenly at John, feeling sick again.

“Why are you showing me?” Sherlock bellowed, knocking John’s arm and the transducer from his stomach and sitting up. “I want whatever is inside of me to go!”

Sherlock wiped the gel away roughly and swung his legs over the side, swaying when he stood and clutching his mouth. John was quick on his feet with experience and practice, and thrust a sick bowl in front of Sherlock’s mouth just in time.

“Give me…” Sherlock started before throwing up again, bending forwards and gripping the bowl. “G-give me mifepristone and prostaglandin.”

“Sherlock--”

“Now!” Sherlock shouted, turning to glance at the door just before it opened and the secretary stepped in to be face to face with Sherlock who all but growled at her. “Get out!”

The woman jumped with a high-pitched gasp and stared at John with wide eyes, about to speak, but John cut her off with a raised hand and motioned her out, shutting and locking the door behind her.

“Sherlock, calm down,” John ordered loudly, taking the sick bowl from him. 

“Give me mifepristone and prostaglandin!” Sherlock yelled, pacing back and forth shortly and then clutching his head when he happened to glance at the ultrasound machine. 

“It’s not as easy as that, Sherlock,” John said with a glare, grabbing Sherlock roughly and pushing him into a chair. “Sit down, for Christ sake. Sit down and calm down.”

Sherlock glowered but remained where John had put him, automatically grabbing his shirt that John threw his way. 

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” John began as he sat opposite with a sigh.

“No,” Sherlock retorted sharply, pulling his shirt on but not buttoning it. “Don’t. I want an abortion. Now. You did your stupid little tests.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and tugged Sherlock forward roughly, “This is your fault. This is your doing. You did this. I won’t give you anything until I get your test results back. I want to make sure you are fine, that you’ve not damaged yourself by doing this...this unthinkable thing,” John hissed into Sherlock’s face. “When I get the results, and only when they arrive, will I do anything more. You will wait, you will be calm, and you will stop acting like a bloody idiot!”

Sherlock blinked at John and frowned, looking away, “I don’t want to wait--”

“Well you’re going to have to, because there is a lot to think and discuss—don’t give me that look, you know there is more that needs to be discussed, Sherlock! Not only do we have to have a serious talk about what you’ve done, but we also need to talk about what should happen after. A lot of men have the female reproductive organs removed, mostly due to health issues; you need to decide if you want this too. If so, then that means surgery.” John said, sighing and loosening his grip on Sherlock. “I know you didn’t mean for this to happen, but it has, and we have to deal with it now, okay? I can go through the abortion technique with you; like I said I would, but we can’t do anything right this moment. And I think you knew that before we came here.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely and looked back at John, clenching his teeth when unexpected and unwanted tears welled and trailed down his cheeks. John exhaled and stroked his thumb over the pulse at Sherlock’s wrist gently, pulling Sherlock in for an awkward but affectionate embrace.

“I know,” John mumbled. “I know…I’ve tried not to fully think about it, honestly. I don’t think I will either, I’m afraid I might punch you if I do…”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, voice muffled by John’s shoulder.

“You better be,” John replied, though there was a hint of a smile to his tone and he stroked a warm hand up and down Sherlock’s spine comfortingly. “Everything will be fine though, okay? We’ll get it…sorted and then that’ll be the end of it.”

Sherlock shifted closer to John, resting his head on him, and turned to stare at John’s neck up close, “Then you can punch me.”

“Yeah,” John laughed, turning his head to glance down at Sherlock. “Right in your face.”

Sherlock huffed and leaned back slowly, wiping his face and with the back of his hand and finally buttoning his shirt. John watched him silently and then uncharacteristically stroked back Sherlock’s curls, the gesture sent tingles down Sherlock’s spine and he flicked his eyes up to catch John smiling at him tightly.

“Do you…know what to do for the medical abortion?” John asked softly, dropping his hand and furrowing his brow. “You have to take the two medicines 36-48 hours apart. You might have some pain…and if you were a woman I’d say you’d have some bleeding as well, but I don’t think you’ll get that, it’ll probably be absorbed or passed another way, like the menstrual blood you’ve had to have had passed in the past. You’ll take mifepristone first, and then two days later you’ll take prostaglandin, and within about six hours…everything will be lost, which will most likely be when you’ll have some pain. You might also feel sick and suffer diarrhoea but, well, I don’t know if you will or not, there’s never been a pregnant man before with PMDS, or not to my knowledge.”

Sherlock nodded and rested back onto John’s shoulder at a sudden spike of queasiness, “Right…”

John patted Sherlock’s side gently, “Now, before we go, I’d like a urine sample I think…just to cover all bases.”

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, screwing his eyes shut tightly, and slowly reaching out to hold John’s hand wordlessly. John cleared his throat timidly but squeezed Sherlock’s fingers soothingly.

***

Back at the flat, Sherlock curled up on the sofa facing the back, and remained motionless and silent, listening to John as he bustled restlessly around the flat, settling in the kitchen to brew them both some tea. Sherlock still felt sick and extremely tired, but he turned around when John touched his back and took the offered mug.

“When will the results be done?” Sherlock murmured into the rim of the mug.

John sighed and shot Sherlock a look, but relented and answered, “A week. Depends.”

“I could test them quicker myself,” Sherlock complained as he sat up.

“Drink your tea,” John replied. 

Sherlock glanced into the mug with a frown, “This isn’t tea—what is this?”

“It’s something to help with the nausea,” John explained after taking a sip out of his own mug. “It’s Ginger tea.”

“Since when did we have Ginger tea?” Sherlock mumbled, taking a careful gulp and grimacing. “Oh…oh, it’s revolting.” 

John chuckled and rubbed the bridge of his nose and his forehead, “Yeah, drink it all the same.” 

Sherlock pulled a face and curled up sleepily, cradling the mug in his hands and peering over at John, “You hate me, don’t you.”

“No…no, I don’t hate you. Not really. I’m pissed off at you, but I don’t hate you,” John sighed, moving to sit next to Sherlock after a moment and nudging his arm. “Drink the tea.”

“You must hate me if you’re making me drink this,” Sherlock mumbled, taking another mouthful with a deep contortion of his mouth and shiver of disgust. “This is horrid.”

“Good,” John smirked, patting Sherlock’s thigh briefly and then looking away.

They both sat in silence for a good hour before Sherlock felt his eyes drooping and jerked in time to watch John fumble to catch the half-empty mug inches from the floor. Sherlock blinked groggily and scowled at the middle-distance, he wasn’t used to not being in control of his bodily functions. Normally, Sherlock could fight off sleep, hunger, and anything else that could be a distraction, but he was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the churning of his stomach and the pulling of his eyelids.

“Off to bed with you,” John was saying in his ear, touching his shoulder with his fingers which sent another batch of tingles down Sherlock’s spine so intensely that Sherlock jerked away. “You should take a quick catnap.”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly, a stubborn tilt to his chin as he glared around the room and got up fluidly, only to sway with dizziness and fall into John’s lap.

John grunted but took his weight without much protest, his arms circling around Sherlock’s waist gently, “Yes.”

“I won’t!” Sherlock hissed through his teeth, struggling to his feet again and pushing John away. “It’s only just turned three o’clock in the evening for crying out loud! I don’t need a nap. I need to…to…to throw up…”

John jumped to his feet as Sherlock tripped over his own feet on his way to the bathroom, scrambling along the floor and only just making it, bringing up the tea with a violent gagging that echoed noisily around him and only made him vomit more. John knelt beside him again, rubbing slow circles over Sherlock’s back and then checking his temperature and heart rate with dry, cool fingertips. 

“We’ll try camomile next time,” John joked to lighten the mood once Sherlock had stopped, smoothing his hand through Sherlock’s hair lightly.

Sherlock slumped against the toilet, “Why do women do this?”

“Makes you appreciate them a bit more, doesn’t it?” John smiled stringently, helping Sherlock to his feet. “The things they can go through.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock scoffed grumpily, sighing when John applied a cool, damp cloth to his forehead and filled a glass for him to swill his mouth out. “Is it always this dreadful?”

John shook his head, “No. Not always. No two women are alike, same goes for the pregnancy,” he said, looking away when Sherlock shifted awkwardly at the word.

“Can’t wait for it to be over,” Sherlock breathed, leaning heavily into John after a few moments, his eyes drooping again and head lolling aside.

When John led him into his room and tucked him in, Sherlock made no move to stop him and instead collapsed in exhaustion. John patted his back and then stroked a quick and light hand through Sherlock’s hair, before leaving his room and quietly shutting the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get those tissues ready. Seriously. This even made me choke up when writing it.
> 
> If you survive without tears, well done you--I've obviously failed as a writer but still, well done!
> 
> Things won't stay sad and angst-y though!

Once Sherlock’s results were back, John grabbed them immediately and went over them during his break, bringing up the stats he’d secretly saved from the ultrasound. John still couldn’t believe it and honestly didn’t want to; didn’t want to let himself feel or react to the fact that Sherlock had impregnated himself with John’s sperm and now was carrying what had looked to be twins. Fraternal twins if John recalled correctly.

From the data collected during the ultrasound, John had been able to estimate how big the embryo had been and when the date of delivery would have been. Sherlock had indeed been five and a half weeks pregnant at the time of the ultrasound, perhaps a little under, which made him six weeks, almost seven, once the results had come back. The baby, or babies, would have had grown during that time and would be coming up to no longer being labelled an embryo but a foetus, moving and developing lungs, livers and kidneys. 

John sat back for a moment, hiding his face with one hand, and then went back to the documents in front of him once he’d composed and reigned in whatever had been clawing at him. It was the best course of action to get rid of them, he knew that, but his heart and gut still ached wrenchingly whenever he thought about it for too long.

Sherlock had been a throwing up off and on during the wait for the results, and had been sleeping in longer than he used to. John had to fight the urge to make Sherlock eat the right foods, take the right medicines, and make a sleeping schedule. The date of the pregnancy also accounted for the SPD Sherlock was recently suffering, as pelvic pain was a very common ailment and one that would often arise during the seventh week. 

John checked Sherlock’s blood results once more, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and was happy to find them clear of any sort of infection or diabetes. The only thing that made John swallow nervously was the level of HCG, because it was high, which could again point towards a twin pregnancy. However, aside from the unbelievable pregnancy, Sherlock was an extremely healthy adult male.

Putting everything aside John dug for his mobile and typed out a text to Sherlock to tell him everything was fine, but paused before he sent it and looked back at the documents with an unfocused gaze. Sherlock would only reply with one thing, to demand the medical abortion. John deleted the message and brought his keyboard over, typing out the names of the two medicines with a slowness that had everything to do with the clenching of his gut. 

When John returned home, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, his cheeks full of cake and Mrs Hudson looking on with a fond but confused expression. John hid the bag of medicines and hung up his coat, smiling tightly at Sherlock with a bemused lift of his brow.

“What?” Sherlock asked around a mouthful of cake. “I’m hungry.”

“He smelt it even before I’d popped it in the oven,” Mrs Hudson told John with a smile and a dainty shrug. “He came bursting into my kitchen after it. Almost scared me half to death, he did.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another large bit of cake before narrowing his gaze on John and wrinkling his nose, “Why did you make a detour through the park?”

John sighed but didn’t answer and after a moment Sherlock seemed to lose interest or had gathered enough information to answer his own question, and turned back to the cake.

“Put them in my room.” Sherlock mumbled around his next mouthful. “I’ll start it tonight. Then we can talk about the surgery.”

“Surgery?” Mrs Hudson asked with a concerned frown, looking back and forth between them.

“Nothing, Mrs Hudson,” John assured her with a hand on her arm. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He glanced at Sherlock briefly, seeing Sherlock staring at him, and moved to pick up the bag of medicines, placing them on Sherlock’s unmade bed with a loud sigh.

He moved to his own room, getting out of his work clothes, and when he returned to the kitchen Mrs Hudson was gone. Sherlock looked up at him, licking his fingers of frosting, and then leaned back with pursed lips.

“Everything came back fine,” John told him needlessly. “You’re in perfect health.”

Sherlock nodded and entwined his fingers over his stomach, only realising where they were and removing them after seeing John staring, “Good. As I said, I’ll start the abortion process tonight and--”

“Do it tomorrow.” John cut in, looking away when Sherlock frowned deeply in displeasure. “It would be better if you did it in the morning—Are you sure we don’t need to talk about it?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said curtly, shifting his weight on the kitchen chair and then combing his hand through his hair roughly. “What would we discuss? You’ve already told me what may happen. Pain, sickness, diarrhoea…what else is there?”

“The psychological affects?” John tried, gesturing with one hand awkwardly.

Sherlock scoffed but leaned his elbows on the kitchen table and bowed his head, gripping handfuls of curls reflexively, “I’ll be fine, Doctor. The only thing this has affected is my stomach—And made me revaluate my self-control.”

“What?”

“I’ve been learning how to ignore my body again,” Sherlock said with a smile that made John sick. “After this ordeal I think I’ll have a much better grasp on--”

John laughed sharply, “Brilliant! Brilliant, so the one thing you’re going to take away from this is more control over your bodily functions? Nothing else? This isn’t going to make you revaluate your frankly idiotic thought processes?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

“Granted it doesn’t happen all the time. For the most part you’re amazing, more than that, you’re remarkable, fantastic, mind-blowing; but there are some times, some moments, when you are so downright stupid that I’m surprised I haven’t strangled you on principal alone!” John said angrily. “This was your fault! You made the mistake of impregnating yourself! You went behind my back, used me, again, for one of your pathetic, selfish, horrible little experiments! You forced me into a situation I had no desire to be in! Never in a millions years did I think I’d have to endure what I did today, to be sat at work, looking over tests and information and images of what could have been my children, only to get the medicine required to destroy them like they never existed!”

Sherlock flinched as if he’d been slapped and stood up slowly, trembling, his eyes suddenly shiny and mouth contorting, “I said I was sorry--”

“Yeah, yeah I know, but I don’t think one little word will cut it, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, clenching his hands into fists. “They’re moving now. Did you know that?”

“Shut up…”

“I’ve tried not to think about it, Sherlock. God, I’ve tried so hard. I almost succeeded, but…but you…” John trailed off furiously and screwed his eyes shut. “I’ve always wanted kids, Sherlock. For the longest time I’ve wanted to settle down and have kids…you’ve stolen what would have been the happiest moment of my life, to find out I was going to be a dad.”

Two thick tears dribbled down Sherlock’s cheeks, ignored unwaveringly by Sherlock as he scoffed wetly, “If anything it sounds like I did you a favour, because let’s face it, John, you’re never going to settle down. At least this way you got to pretend--”

“How dare you,” John shouted, striding up to Sherlock. “You…bastard…”

“Hit me,” Sherlock ordered him, dared him. “I know you want to. Go on. Hit me. Hit me hard.”

John glared at him but the sight of the tears that were now steadily rolling down Sherlock’s cheeks made him step back, some of his anger dissolving, “No. I don’t want to hit you.”

“Yes, you do.”

John sighed loudly and after a moment composed himself enough to look Sherlock in the eyes, “You’ve got to know that this has been really hard on me? I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know it’s messing you up, but don’t you think it’s messing me up too? I’ve scheduled what could be my own children’s death; and sure, you’re probably right, I might never settle down, so this, right now, will be the only time I even come close to having a family, don’t you understand how much that hurts me?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly and more tears fell, “It was a mistake, a huge one, one I do take full responsibility for…and I am sorry, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Now it has, I need to deal with it, I need to fix my mistake, and that’s just what I’m going to do. Afterwards I will feel nothing. I’m sorry but it’s the truth, I feel nothing. Nothing at all. And I shall feel nothing when it’s over.” 

“Right,” John nodded shortly, not wanting to talk any further and sweeping an arm towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “Fine. Do it now if you want. Do whatever you want. We can talk about the surgery at a later date.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Sherlock said when John turned his back.

“I know,” John sighed. “I know it is, but I can’t help having an emotional response about it, Sherlock. I agree with the abortion from a Doctor’s point of view, from a medical standpoint, but…I can’t lie and say there isn’t a part of me that wishes it had happened another way, with another person, so I could watch them grow and hold them in my arms…” John looked down at his feet with a deeply furrowed brow and then stalked away before Sherlock could respond, catching a glimpse of Sherlock covering his face with his hands miserably. 

***

The next day John felt terrible and knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door, entering even when there was no response. Sherlock was asleep, curled up on his side with the blankets twisted and tucked around his body. John looked around the room; spotting the bag he’d brought up sitting, crumpled, in the corner, and walked over to check it softly. The medicines were untouched and he glanced over his shoulder at the slumbering Sherlock with a gentle sigh.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly as he moved to shake Sherlock awake slowly. “Sherlock, it’s morning. Come and have something to eat.”

Sherlock twitched and stirred, peering up blearily at him, “John?”

“Yeah. Come and eat some breakfast. I’ll use the jam, you like,” John smiled, instinctively brushing back Sherlock’s mussed fringe when he slowly sat up with a faint wince. “Pelvis pain, still?”

Sherlock nodded and without thinking John pushed his hand under the covers and cupped Sherlock’s hot stomach, rubbing gently and pressing around the area, massaging and examining at the same time. Sherlock didn’t object and flung an arm across his face, lying back down in the bed with a low breath. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” John murmured after a while, crouching beside the bed and stilling his hand. “But I’m glad you waited until today to do the…the abortion. Let’s get some food in you first though, yeah?”

When Sherlock didn’t respond John leaned in closer about to speak again, but Sherlock’s stomach suddenly shuddered under his palm and Sherlock turned onto his side, his face crumpling in overwhelming emotion but quickly hidden by his arms and hands. John frowned in concern and knelt one knee on the bed, following Sherlock as he curled up and let out a chocked and erratic sob.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, it’s okay…Sherlock, look at me,” John said tentatively, tugging on Sherlock’s hands lightly and bending close to try and catch a view of his face. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock wept, taking in several deep, heaving breaths, before he stiffened and then bolted from the bed, rushing into the bathroom to be fiercely sick. John ran after him, falling to his knees beside Sherlock’s bent body and holding him close, trying to be reassuring as he grimaced and listened to Sherlock retch loudly. 

Once it seemed like Sherlock was done, John pulled him back against his chest and wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet, checking Sherlock’s pulse and temperature automatically. John hushed Sherlock soothingly when Sherlock shivered and coughed, breath hitching on another sob, and helped him to his feet.

Sherlock gripped the sink, clenched his eyes shut, and then blanked his expression before washing his face and brushing his teeth. John watched him anxiously and then led him through to the kitchen with a smile, fixing him some breakfast and pouring him a glass of water.

Sherlock took the water first, drinking it slowly, and then hunched limply over table, pushing his plate of toast aside. 

“Sherlock, you need to eat,” John sighed sternly, crossing his arms. “Come on. Take a few bites. Sherlock.”

“I’m not hungry.”

John moved to stand behind him and leaned over, taking a slice of toast between his fingers, “I know you don’t feel like eating anything, but you have to, so come on. Don’t make me force feed you.”

Sherlock glared at him but took the slice and bit a big piece from it before throwing it back down on the plate, “Happy?”

“No. Eat all of the toast, then I will be,” John told him, moving away to make himself a cup of tea.

John sat down opposite Sherlock at the table and looked up at him when their legs brushed under it. Sherlock was nibbling the toast, looking pale and haggard, his hair in disarray and his pyjamas crumpled, and John sighed, reaching over hesitantly, and stroking Sherlock’s fragile looking wrist. 

“About yesterday,” Sherlock mumbled after a heavy and lengthy pause, sighing. “I didn’t mean what I said. You’re bound to find someone and settle down and leave me, I know you will, I’ve prepared for it.”

“I won’t leave you,” John replied straightaway.

“Yes, you will,” Sherlock retorted, glancing up at John with glossy eyes briefly, a wonky smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

John frowned seriously and tightened his hold on Sherlock’s wrist, “Never.”

Sherlock laughed wetly in response and sniffed, clearing his throat, his mouth grimacing deeply. John squeezed his wrist a little harder, feeling Sherlock’s steady pulse, and watched in tense silence as Sherlock ate through the toast slowly and finished off the rest of the water.

They remained at the kitchen table for what amounted to an hour before Sherlock slipped out of John’s grasp and stood, heading for his bedroom meaningfully. John clenched his jaw and looked over when Sherlock paused at the kitchen threshold. 

“I’m sorry it had to be me,” Sherlock told him, voice thick but face unreadable. “I wish it could have been someone else for you too, so you could have been happy.”

John turned and stood to reply but his heart clenched with emotion and his throat clogged up, rendering him speechless. Sherlock looked at him and nodded, and then shuffled off towards his bedroom, head bowed and arms limp at his sides. John took a shaky breath and sat back down, covering his mouth with one hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stared at the lone white pill in his palm with a blurred vision and a lump in his throat. He held it up to inspect it uselessly, turning it around between his fingertips in a slow twirl that made the lump in his throat bigger, and then he sneered, wiped his eyes with the back of his other hand and lifted the pill to his mouth. The pill remained cushioned on his trembling bottom lip for the span of four seconds before Sherlock pulled it away and clenched it in his fist, pacing the length of his bedroom irritably, holding back the urge to scream. 

Covering his head with his arms Sherlock bent over with a half-muffled groan of gut-wrenchingly mixed emotions. John’s words from the other day circled in his head and he grit his teeth, falling to his knees and curling up into a ball, the pill cutting into his palm as he tightened his grip on it. 

Sherlock knew the best thing to do would be to take the pill and start the process of clearing his body of his mistake, but as he slowly uncurled his fist to glance at it in determination his stomach turned, and he rolled onto his back, breathing deeply. One of his hands had landed on his midriff in his sudden shift and Sherlock tugged his pyjama top up to slide his shaking fingertips over the skin there. Nothing had changed, nothing felt different, there was no way to tell from touch and sight alone that something was growing inside of him. Two, John had said, there might be two.

He tried once again to take the pill, this time with a swift and tensed movement, but his hand jerked to a stop just shy of his mouth and Sherlock turned his head away.

“Take it,” Sherlock whispered, lowly, staring at the tablet. “Take it. Just take it. Take the pill. Take it…”

Throwing it suddenly to the side, Sherlock watched it hit the floor and roll under his bed. He stared at it blankly, cheek pushed into the carpet, and pressed his mouth into a tight, shaking line when tears welled and dripped warmly down his face. His pelvis ached in an abrupt bloom and he pushed a hand to it, grinding his knuckles down until it passed.

It was hurting and disrupting him, and he knew he should just take the pill and be done with it all, get rid of the vomiting, the exhaustion, the emotions, and the problem. Perhaps if he hadn’t have told John he could have gotten his hand on the medicine earlier and bygone everything? 

Sherlock had been so fascinated and thrilled when he’d first found out about his strange insides that the thought to test if everything worked as it should came almost instantly, and the opportunity to experiment was too good to pass up. Apparently he had been having periods for years without much discomfort or trouble, and had only noticed something amiss when he’d just so happened to notice blood in his urine. Sherlock hadn’t panicked as much as he probably should have, had only been curious, and had sneaked into Bart’s to take a variety of tests over the span of a week only to find later he had parts where he really shouldn’t have them. 

In an odd twist of events he had discovered that he was also ovulating the day he found the elegant feminine curves of fallopian tubes hidden inside him. Sherlock had only planned to see if it would take, if he was capable of getting pregnant, just for scientific interest and research, had only planned to wait to see if the egg would divide and attach before flushing his system. However, fate seemed to have had other plans and a case had distracted him long enough to allow the egg to not only attach but to grow, cushioned within the womb of a man. 

Sherlock blinked away more annoying tears and reached for the pill, pausing a few inches from grabbing it. For a moment, he thought about his own parents, about the accounts his mother had told concerning her tricky and awkward pregnancy with Sherlock, and of the overall happiness once Sherlock was born. She had miscarried before Sherlock, or that was what Mycroft had said. Sherlock had wondered about the would be baby for the longest time, wondered what it would have looked like, wondered if it would have been a girl or a boy, wondered if it would have disliked Mycroft as much as Sherlock did.

Although, that wasn’t true, Sherlock didn’t dislike Mycroft, not much at any rate, not always, Mycroft was still his brother, and Sherlock could remember times Mycroft had been the only one to understand him, the only one he could have turned to. Sherlock remembered when he used to be afraid of the dark at five years old, when he’d see things out of the corner of his eyes and rush into Mycroft’s room to climb into bed with him and cling to his pyjamas. Mycroft would speak to him in a low voice until Sherlock fell asleep, and then would walk Sherlock back into his bedroom in the morning to explain what Sherlock actually had seen. Mycroft had even played pirate with Sherlock, had indulged his little brother and allowed Sherlock to poke and prod and slash at him with a plastic sword and bendy hook, and had read tales upon tales of real and fictional pirate stories to Sherlock without so much as a sigh.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a trembling breath and curled up a little tighter on the floor, turning to the Mycroft in his mind who smiled at him and rambled in a calm, smoothing voice about the legend of Blackbeard. 

As he listened to his brother speak he thought about what would happen if he didn’t take the pill. There was a high chance it wouldn’t survive - that they wouldn’t survive - Sherlock’s body might have housed the female reproductive organs, but that didn’t mean that his body could or would cope with the pregnancy. Sherlock already felt awful, felt tired, miserable, and sick; he was not a woman; he didn’t know what it would do to him and what it would do to what was growing inside him. 

Sherlock was the first man with PMDS to be pregnant, the first man with it to not have health issues, and Sherlock didn’t know what that fully meant or what would happen at a later date if he didn’t stop the pregnancy soon. John, forever a rock for Sherlock, had tried to be the voice of reason and moral support, but it had ultimately devastated him, and Sherlock felt incredibly guilty for that fact. He had never wanted to hurt John as much as he had, Sherlock had never wanted any of what had happened to happen. He wished, and not for the first time, that he had never found out, or that he’d been less interested once he had found out and had the reproductive organs pulled from his body like the majority of PMDS cases. 

The image of the fluttering heartbeat from the ultrasound formed into Sherlock’s hands as Mycroft continued to drone soothingly, and Sherlock stared at it with an agonised expression, gripping it with unsteady hands as Molly, Lestrade, and then his parents, materialised around him, each with their hand on his shoulders. Sherlock glanced up as Mycroft stepped close, and in that moment he was five years old again, clinging to Mycroft’s pyjamas, shaking and scared.

***

Once Sherlock came to it was to his name being called, and he blinked sluggishly as John reached down and heaved him up off the floor, touching his face and checking him over.

“Are you all right?” John asked, sitting down with Sherlock on the edge of his bed and cradling his head.

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered robotically. “I just…fell asleep.”

John arched an eyebrow and inclined his chin, “On the floor?”

“Obviously, on the floor,” Sherlock snapped.

“Okay. All right,” John sighed, his hand a warm and comforting weight on Sherlock’s thigh. “Is it because you experienced some pain? Cramps…things like that? That’s normal, but if they are particularly bad, you need to tell me and we might have to get you to the emergency department.”

Sherlock nodded but looked away, trailing his eyes down to the floor, Sherlock couldn’t see the pill from where he was, so that meant neither could John, “I didn’t take it.”

John was silent a second and then shifted his position beside Sherlock, moving his hand to Sherlock’s knee, “What?”

“I didn’t take it,” Sherlock repeated after a deep breath. “Not yet. I will though...”

“Okay,” John whispered, patting Sherlock’s leg. “Okay, that’s fine. Take all the time you need--” 

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed, pushing John away and closing his eyes. “Stop coddling me one moment and then shouting angrily at me the next. Pick one. You’re either mad at me and hate me for what I’ve done, or you pity me and forgive me.”

“I can do both,” John replied.

“No, you can’t--”

“Yes,” John interrupted, getting to his feet. “Yes, I can. What you did was stupid, and I’m mad at you, but I also care very deeply for you and don’t want to see you in any pain or upset. I don’t hate you, Sherlock. I don’t think I have it in me to hate you.”

Sherlock looked at John and then reached down to pick up the pill, rolling it into his palm, “This blocks a specific hormone, doesn’t it?” he asked, changing the subject and trying to keep his voice steady and distant.

John stared at the pill vacantly, “Yes. It affects the hormone in charge of the lining of the…of the womb.”

Sherlock nodded and fingered the pill roughly, blinking and growling in frustration when tears leaked down his face. John stepped close and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder comfortingly, and Sherlock covered his eyes with one hand, abruptly sobbing quietly and leaning into the warmth of John’s stomach.

“Tell me to do it,” Sherlock mumbled after several seconds of crying silently, pushing up into John’s hand skimming through his hair. “Tell me.”

“Sherlock--”

“Please. Just…just tell me to do it. Tell me how it’s the only, possible, logical thing to do! Tell me to take the pill. Tell me…” Sherlock wept angrily, clutching the tablet in his hand as he suddenly turned and stood, only to slide to his haunches on the floor a second later. “It’s destroying me, John! I’d rather take being stabbed or shot or dying over this! At least then I could deal with it better—Why is this so difficult? Tell me to do it; I want to hear you say it, John. I want to hear you tell me that you want it dead!”

John crouched quickly and grabbed Sherlock’s face, “Calm down, Sherlock. Calm down, now! You said you were getting a better handle on your bodily functions, on your emotions, then show me!” John told him, gripping Sherlock’s cheeks tighter when Sherlock fought him. “Calm down.”

“Tell me to do it!”

“I can’t!” John shouted, letting Sherlock go abruptly and sitting back on the floor with his head in his hands. “It is the right thing to do…I know it is, just like you do, but as I told you before, a part me just—This decision is yours to make, I can’t tell you to do anything. I couldn’t tell you not to do this damn experiment in the first place, and I can’t tell you what to do about the outcome of it now.”

Sherlock scowled at the floor and adjusted his hips at another pelvic ache, locking eyes with John as he brought the pill to his lips once more. Sherlock took a breath, watched as John’s brow furrowed, and pushed the dry pill into his mouth roughly with a painful and terrible shudder of his heart. It fell against his tongue and Sherlock shivered, staring at John who looked back with sorrowful but unyielding eyes. 

Sherlock’s entire mouth was parched and it clung to the side of his cheek as he tried to swallow, it smeared bitter paste over his taste buds, and he felt instantly sick, his throat jumping and contracting as he gagged on nothing. He spat the pill back out and heaved, throwing up in his hand before John could hand him the bin in his room. 

“Perhaps try it with some…some water?” John said softly.

“No. No, I…I can’t…I can’t do it…God help me I can’t do it, John…” Sherlock moaned pitifully, remaining hunched over the bin as John left to get a cloth and wipe the sick from Sherlock’s hand. 

John moved the bin away after a moment and sighed, tugging Sherlock strongly to his side, embracing him, “It’s okay…we…we’ll sort something out. Just…just calm down, okay? Calm down.” John whispered, pulling Sherlock up and onto the bed slowly. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock shook his head and growled, swatting at John furiously, “It’s not okay! None of this is okay, John!”

Without responding, John tucked the blankets around Sherlock and stroked his back, soothing a hand down Sherlock’s side when Sherlock trembled and ducked his head. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and concentrated on getting his breath under control, breathing through another bout of nausea with John’s hand shifting consolingly over his shoulders.

Sherlock drifted half to sleep minutes later and listened to John clean up, watching through his lashes as John bent down to pick up the disregarded pill. John stared at it, pinched it hard between his fingers, and then took it and the bag with the other medicine out of Sherlock’s room. Sherlock turned his face into his pillow and clutched the blankets tightly, ignoring the ache in his pelvis with a deep frown.


	5. Chapter 5

John disposed of the medicines and sat in the living room blankly, staring at his own hands and then breathing as calmly as he could. Some part of him knew Sherlock might not have been able to do it, a very small part, but it had been there nonetheless. John was in shock, felt sick and dizzy and confused and immeasurably terrified. Sherlock was pregnant with his children and John didn’t know what to do about that, didn’t know what he was meant to think or say, especially not after Sherlock was unable to do what he had vehemently been determined to do before and get rid of them.

Just like John himself, Sherlock had known the best course of action was to terminate the pregnancy, as it was the right thing, the logical thing, the healthiest thing to do, yet John had suffered and struggled with the idea, and Sherlock had ultimately been incapable of stopping the lives inside him. John had mixed feelings about the outcome, switching between being happy that Sherlock hadn’t gone through with it, to being scared and angry and overwhelmed with emotion. 

The future was uncertain, would Sherlock get rid of them another way? Would they damage Sherlock? John was scared about that the most, of them harming Sherlock. Sherlock was not made to carry babies; no matter if he had the organs to do so, his body might not be equipped to deal with the changes that came with carrying babies. Sherlock was healthy, almost perfectly so, which was strange considering his habits, but John wasn’t sure if the health would remain good if the pregnancy went on any longer.

Sherlock was around six-seven weeks at that moment, suffering morning sickness, cravings and pelvic pain, soon he would be eight weeks, and at eight the babies will be around 1.6cm long, with a fully formed placenta, and developing eyelids, ears and noses. At eight, they would no long be embryos but foetuses, opening and closing their mouths. John wanted to do another scan, another ultrasound to check on them; to talk to Sherlock, to talk to someone else, to decide the consequence of Sherlock’s mistake and make a plan that was right for both Sherlock and the unborn babies.

John knew all the complications with pregnancy, more so with twins, and miscarriage was something John thought was a high possibility with Sherlock, and if it did happen, John had no idea how Sherlock, nor himself, would deal with it, not to mention not knowing how they’d deal with the babies growing to full term. Sherlock had no way to give birth to them being a male; he’d have to undergo a caesarean, and then they’d have two newborn babies to look after. The flat was not the place for them, was unsafe in every imaginable way, and there was no room to keep them, not with Sherlock and John in separate rooms. 

Did Sherlock want to keep them? Did John himself want to keep them? What would he do, what would he tell people, his sister, his parents, Sherlock’s parents, Sherlock’s brother? Should John even tell them the truth? 

The babies could grow deformities, could develop problems, and could end up being terminated anyway because of such issues. 

John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, leaning forward to lean his elbows on his knees, pressing down harder when the surge of panic became too much. He cared for Sherlock, more than he had cared for someone for a long time, and he was scared to death for him, as well as angry as hell with him. John couldn’t picture what the offspring of Sherlock and him would look like, couldn’t picture them, as parents, definitely not Sherlock, and he suddenly, desperately, wanted to do another ultrasound. 

Standing up, John paced around the living room, then into the kitchen, before walking to Sherlock’s bedroom door and placing his palm on it lightly. His heart shuddered and he leaned his forehead into the door with another sigh, he knew he had to help Sherlock to try another abortion, it was the only rational thing, it was best for everyone, but even so, John, as a doctor, knew it was not good for both of them to be lecturing and forcing Sherlock to do anything, he had denied choosing for Sherlock before and he couldn’t go back on that, didn’t want to go back on it, but John saw no other way, as much as it pained him, the end was too obscure to risk Sherlock’s health. 

Slowly, silently, John peered in at Sherlock, wandering over to tug back the blankets to see his face. Sherlock was on his side, cheek pushed into the pillow and mouth parted, and John gazed at how young and innocent and peaceful he seemed, crouching beside the bed to lean closer, only to then stand up and fetch a tall glass of water, placing it on Sherlock’s bedside. 

Checking his watch he noticed it had been several hours since he’d woken Sherlock up in the morning, and left him to do what he had been unable to do, and he looked back down at Sherlock, determined to wake him up in another twenty minutes to make him eat. Sherlock looked thin and overly pale, and John hesitated a moment before reaching out and checking his temperature with the backs of his fingers, stroking back a stray curl. 

Sherlock snuffled in response and turned towards his touch with a low murmur, and John smiled warmly, folding the blankets around his shoulders, patting Sherlock’s covered arm. He wanted to check Sherlock’s stomach, as a doctor, as a friend, and as a parent, he wanted to make sure, he wanted to make doubly sure, he wanted to continually make sure Sherlock was okay.

“What am I going to do with you,” John whispered, the stereotypical phrase slipping so easily and so comfortingly from his mouth. “You’ve been a right berk, you incredible, brilliant, stupid man.”

John touched Sherlock’s temple very lightly, slid his fingers down over one cheekbone, and left as quietly as he’d entered. His mind was buzzing and he tried to push everything aside, moving to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea and to plan out the meal he needed to make Sherlock eat, rummaging through cupboards and then glaring into the fridge upon finding a box full of toes with a exasperated sigh.

***

Placing the plate of sandwiches down on the kitchen table, John checked the time and then made his way back to Sherlock’s room, walking to lean over the bed and touch Sherlock’s sleeping head.

“Sherlock? Wake up,” John whispered, smiling when Sherlock shifted and moaned inaudibly, “Come on, up you get. You need to have something to eat, I know you’re tired, but you need to eat.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Up,” John retorted sternly, pulling the blankets back until Sherlock slowly sat up and scowled. “Come on.”

Swinging on his dressing gown, Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, stifling a yawn and scratching the back of his head. He smiled briefly and sat down, taking a drink of water and eyeing John as he too sat, leaning across the table slightly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sherlock said before John could open his mouth.

“We need to.”

“No.”

John glared, “Yes.”

Sherlock tucked his chair in roughly, cupped his head in one hand, and avoided eye contact. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve apologised. I’ve…tried to fix my mistake and I failed, all right? I failed.”

“And we need to talk about what happens now.” John said calmly, pushing the plate meaningfully. “Do you…want to try another way? Do you want to…want to keep them?”

“You said yourself that there might not be two. Vanishing twin syndrome,” Sherlock said curtly, ignoring the sandwiches stubbornly.

John inclined his head and clenched his jaw, “What do you want to do?”

“Why is this left up to me?” Sherlock hissed.

“Because you did this, Sherlock!” John suddenly shouted, hitting the table so hard the plate clattered. “You did this, and it’s your body, so it’s your decision--!”

“I can’t!” Sherlock yelled in response, his face contorting. “I can’t decide! I can’t, John! What makes you think I can decide anything when I couldn’t even go through with my first choice? Hm? I couldn’t even go through with something I passionately and repeatedly said I wanted!”

John swallowed and sat back, looking away angrily for a moment, “So what now?”

Sherlock took a shaky, wet inhale, “I don’t know, John. I really don’t. What makes you think I can agree to try another way to abort when I couldn’t even do one of the simplest and quickest ways that there are?”

“So…we’re keeping--”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock barked. “You know as well as I, that the best thing to do is to get rid, but I can’t…I can’t do that. I don’t want them, but I can’t get rid of them. Where does that leave us? Leave me?”

John locked eyes with him, “You don’t know the other ways to abort.”

“Tell me then,” Sherlock said, waving a hand and flashing John a condescending smile. “Tell me, which one is best for a pregnant man? Mm? Tell me! Because I’m sure that the others need for me to have a vagina!” 

“Okay, yes, that’s true—so are you saying you won’t have an operation to abort them? To have them surgically removed, along with the female reproductive organ?”

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock countered harshly. 

“Would you do it?”

“Do you want me to?”

John leaned back across the table towards him, “Sherlock--”

“No!” Sherlock answered finally, shaking. “No, I…I wouldn’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

“So we’re keeping them, then,” John said after taking a deep breath.

Sherlock’s face creased briefly and then blanked, his eyes downcast, “I…I suppose so.” He muttered, looking sick and curling his shoulders.

John entwined their hands suddenly and tugged until Sherlock glanced at him fleetingly, “I have to tell you, this isn’t definite, pregnancies are…are difficult and all sorts of things can occur. As a Doctor, I’ve seen this, I know this…they might not survive anyway.”

“I know…”

John nodded, “This either…works out…like any normal pregnancy and we are left with one or two newborns, or there are complications, they endanger you or develop deformities, and they don’t survive,” John said, trying not to think too much about his words, falling back on his doctor persona. “Either way, we need to plan what to do. Either way, you’ll need to go into hospital, you’ll need an operation.”

Sherlock sighed and squeezed John’s fingers tightly, “I know this, John. I know…”

John stared at their entangled hands for a long, tense, moment, and then huffed out a breath, the sound almost a sob, “We…we’re having babies. You and me. I’m going to be a dad and…and so are you—God, this is so strange,” he laughed suddenly. “How is this going to work? What are we going to do?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered. “I really am. Truly.”

“Yeah,” John breathed, stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. “I know…me too. Would you be willing to have another ultrasound?”

Sherlock nodded slowly without speaking, staring at John’s thumb and pressing his lips together, clenching his jaw tightly. John sighed and nudged the sandwiches closer, tapping the plate until Sherlock gave in with an almighty groan and began picking at them, eating them slowly but surely and keeping his gaze down. 

“We’ll work through this. Things will be fine…whatever happens, okay?” John said quietly, brushing their knees under the table and squeezing Sherlock’s hand, then his wrist, looking Sherlock over intensely. “Sherlock…look at me.”

Sherlock breathed out gently and then lifted his eyes, smiling at John with a brief twitch of his mouth, “You don’t need to say these things to me, John.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” John told him, stroking his arm. “Come on now, eat up, all of it. Please.”

“Yes, mother hen,” Sherlock mumbled, fondly, taking a small bite out of another sandwich and chewing slowly, keeping eye contact. 

John watched him silently and thought about the future, the future with Sherlock, with babies, and fought down the need to jump up and pace. John momentarily thought about adoption for the babies, to give them to a family that could keep them safe and happy, living with Sherlock and him, in the flat, was not a safe environment. John didn’t think Sherlock would give up his work, not for a dull, domestic life with children, Sherlock needed brain work, cases, puzzles, adventures, things he wouldn’t be able to have with children in the equation. The children would also serve as a weak point to Sherlock; they’d replace John as Sherlock’s Achilles heel and be in danger, constantly, never able to live a normal life, always looking over their shoulders and surrounded by the media.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, as if he could hear John’s thoughts, and took another mouthful of water as John got up and pulled his chair around to sit at Sherlock’s side, resting an arm around the back of Sherlock’s chair and stroking his fingers very gently over Sherlock’s dressing gown with a sigh. 

“You’re going to have to do what I advise,” John told him. “You’ll have a routine for sleeping and eating, and looking after yourself. You hear me? If this is going to happen, if this is the choice, then you’re going to have to change a few things, yes?”

“If you say so,” Sherlock groused lowly, taking another sip of water.

“Good, because I do say so,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s back with his palm. “Eat the rest of the sandwiches, then go have a bath, it’ll ease the pelvic pains.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes aside in response but inclined his head quickly, “Fine…fine.”

John smiled and cupped the back of Sherlock’s nape affectionately, glancing down at his clothed stomach with a mixed and complicated feeling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait.
> 
> Let me know if you lovelies want me to keep this going, and also could you please comment on if you want Sherlock to develop breasts or not. I know, I know, strange question, and this isn't all that realistic, but with the amount of hormones going on in his body, he could develop them, however not sure if I should include that in the story or not. At present I think not to, but I'd like feedback. 
> 
>  
> 
> And I'm just showing you, once again, how this is based on a real life disorder. I'm not sure what would happen if the man in the link were to become pregnant, but the fact of the matter is, the man could have gotten pregnant.  
> [Man with Persistent Müllerian Duct Syndrome](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/news/11397560/Man-born-with-a-womb-prepares-for-hysterectomy.html)

“Do you want to see this time?” John asked Sherlock as he tucked the paper towel around the waistband of his trousers. “Want to…hear them?”

Sherlock already felt sick and panicked, and fidgeted awkwardly as John adjusted him with dry, soothing hands, “No.”

“You sure--?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, glaring at John and moving position to be more comfortable, holding up his shirt with both hands.

John shot him a narrowed eyed look but didn’t respond to the snappish tone and turned to tweak the ultrasound machine before applying the gel to Sherlock’s midriff and grabbing for the transducer. Sherlock watched him grumpily and crossed his ankles with an agitated and rough movement, almost kicking John in the hip in the process.

“You’re about eight weeks now,” John began as he pushed the probe at a skilled angle of familiarity. “Something I’m just going to double check…”

Sherlock watched John’s hands work on the machine and against Sherlock’s stomach individually, finding that the calm, steady and professional actions comforted him somewhat. Sherlock didn’t want to look at the monitor; not again, he didn’t think he could deal with seeing the difference from the last time. The grey mass with a fluttering heartbeat still plagued and haunted his dreams, frightening him and disturbing him in equal measure. He tried not to think too much about it, tried to delete it from his memory altogether, but it lingered and resurfaced time and time again.

“Okay,” John said with a shaky breath and a nod, rolling the ball mouse on the machine a few times, pressing a few buttons, and then taking out a notepad from his pocket to write something down. “You are officially eight weeks—are you positive you don’t want to see them?”

“Still twins then,” Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes tightly and tightening his hold on his own shirt. He listened to John sigh and then jerked with wide eyes when John turned the monitor and clicked a few buttons, playing a heart beat that was twice as fast as Sherlock’s own. Unable to speak and protest, Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, fighting back a sudden bout of nausea, and stared at the screen as John adjusted the transducer to show the first and then the second foetus.

John was faintly smiling when Sherlock was finally able to tear his eyes away, “You okay?”

“I told you I didn’t want to see or hear,” Sherlock replied impassively.

John’s smile faltered but he shrugged and pressed a button to bring back the fast heart beat, “You need to see and hear.”

Sherlock glanced back at the screen and listened, shaking and gripping at his shirt, his eyes stinging suddenly with tears. John clicked at the keypad loudly looking unhappy and stern, his mouth tensed, and Sherlock swallowed thickly as he traced the shape of the grey shapes that were nestled inside his body.

“They each have an umbilical cord now,” John told him, pointing at something Sherlock couldn’t quite make out. “This here is the amniotic sac…and this is what we call the yolk sac. This is the head of baby one and that’s the body… and this is baby two. I’m just going to measure them both again now.” 

John peered at the monitor closely and adjusted the probe on Sherlock’s stomach to try and get a better picture of them and huffing a soft laugh. Sherlock frowned at him but didn’t comment and watched anxiously, regarding the way John continually wrote things down in his notepad, eyes flicking back and forth between paper and screen and hand pushing and pressing on Sherlock’s stomach.

To distract himself Sherlock looked around the room, eyeing what seemed to be a pregnancy chart on the back wall with a nervous flutter of his heart. The chart showed a visual representation of pregnancy week by week, and at the eight weeks the stomach was loosely distended, not completely but there was still a distinctive bump. Sherlock glanced down at his own stomach in comparison, finding nothing different than how he had looked before. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, having noticed Sherlock’s change in expression.

“Nothing,” Sherlock muttered, glancing between the chart and his own body briefly and then looking away. Sherlock was a man, not a woman; perhaps it was different because of his difference in gender?

John nudged him with the probe roughly and shot Sherlock a demanding glance, “Tell me?”

“I was…comparing,” Sherlock sighed after a moment of silence, gesturing towards the wall vaguely with a wiggle of his fingers. John frowned at him and then looked at the chart. 

“Ah. Well, keep in mind you hardly bloody eat and therefore haven’t put the right amount of weight on to begin with,” John told him. “And you’re pretty damn lean, you know, muscled; plus not all pregnancies are the same as I said before, some women show at eight weeks, some don’t, it’s just how it is. There are lots of different factors to take into account; age, muscle tone, height, weight, being just some of them.”

“Hm. Being a man must be a new factor,” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his forehead with one hand and then sitting up to blindly reach for the sick bowl John had placed beside him. 

John winced as Sherlock threw up violently into it and stroked his thigh comfortingly, “The vomiting doesn’t help…”

“I think I have a heightened sense of smell,” Sherlock groaned, spitting and wiping his mouth and accepting a plastic cup of water from John. “I feel sick almost all the time but sometimes I can…smell the most…ghastly things—the new perfume of that horrid woman at reception for instance.”

John stifled a grin and took the bowl away, and then went back to the ultrasound, “Apparently that happens. A lot of pregnant women complain from heightened senses, mostly smell.”

Sherlock slowly rested back down and threw one arm over his head sulkily, “Brilliant…”

“Is there anything else? Apart from the sense of smell, the vomiting, pelvic and back pain?” John asked casually, cocking his head aside thoughtfully a second later. “Huh, I wonder if you’ll get baby brain…”

“Baby what?” Sherlock asked in bewilderment.

“It’s really going to be something to see if you do,” John laughed instead of answering Sherlock’s question, eyes on the screen. 

“They’re going to affect my brain?” Sherlock demanded, pushing up on his elbows, suddenly and overwhelmingly alarmed. “How? Are you being serious?”

John shot Sherlock a look, “Calm down. No, I’m not being serious—There are a lot of women who would disagree with me, but I peg it down to exhaustion more than anything. Pregnancy is a…strange time, the hormones and the sickness and the fatigue, it’s bound to make you less alert…”

Sherlock eyed him with a glare and relaxed back, “Are we done? My backside is going to sleep—I’m uncomfortable and I need to pee.”

“Okay. Hang on a second,” John murmured, turning the monitor and fiddling with the machine for another few moments. “There are normally two scans, the first is mostly the dating scan at around eight to fourteen weeks, and the second is sometimes called the anomaly scan, which looks for abnormalities, at around eighteen to twenty-one weeks. There can be more and I’d like you to have more, seeing as you…well, seeing as you’re a pregnant man, a pregnant man with twins. Everything will be kept mostly secret, I say mostly because I’m going to be keeping documentation, but I don’t want to inform anyone…not only would it attract the media and you’d be all over the news, but they’d be poking and prodding you, even more than I will be doing. I…may talk to Mike though, I think we need someone else who knows about it, just in case—Christ, this is reminding me so much of “Junior”.”

“What?” Sherlock furrowed his brow roughly in reaction and sat up when John wiped the gel from his skin and moved away to twiddle with the machine.

““Junior” is a film starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’s this scientist who undertakes a male pregnancy experiment,” John explained.

“Like me?” Sherlock asked quietly, pulling down his shirt and standing to tuck it into his trousers.

John shook his head with an amused puff of breath, “No. Not like you. Basically, in the film, there is a fertility drug called “Expectane” that’s been invented which is meant to reduce the chances of a woman’s body rejecting an embryo, preventing miscarriage. They can’t test it on women, as it’s not approved, so Arnold’s character is persuaded to impregnate himself using an ovum with the codename “Junior”.”

Sherlock squinted in confusion, “How? If the man doesn’t have anywhere for the--”

“Yeah, well, it’s just a comedy, it’s not meant to be realistic. They attach the ovum to Arnold’s character’s large intestine,” John laughed. “And by the end he has contractions and whatever else—Yeah, the film isn’t entirely scientific.” 

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement and stepped over to John awkwardly, shifting his weight. “And to answer your earlier question—Yes, there is something else apart from the heightened senses, vomiting, and back and pelvic pain. I’ve been experiencing sensitivity.”

John looked over at him, “Oh? Where?”

“My…chest,” Sherlock said uneasily. 

“Let me see?” John asked, turning to face Sherlock with a small and reassuring smile, hands calmly and passively at his sides. 

Sherlock sighed and nodded, unbuttoning his shirt to expose his torso and holding back a flinch when John reached out to touch him with warm hands. John was concentrating softly, crawling his fingers around Sherlock’s chest and briefly under his underarms. Sherlock tapped a finger to his nipple self-consciously but significantly, and John glanced up at him before running his fingertips against the sensitive skin and making Sherlock twitch. 

“Sore?” John questioned.

“Yes.”

John inclined his head pushed his palm and then his fingers around Sherlock’s torso, “It’s just because of the…the pregnancy.”

“Will I…grow breasts?” Sherlock asked uncomfortably, redoing his shirt after John pulled away.

“I…I honestly don’t know,” John muttered, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment and then gesturing with a hand. “The toilet is through there.”

***

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the toilet mirror as he washed and dried his hands and sighed with a grimace, looking down at his clothed stomach with a wave of nervous queasiness. He turned aside slowly and jerked his shirt back up to uncover the flat, lean, length of his abdomen, smoothing one hand over it. It was still quite hard to believe that he was in the situation he was in, nothing looked different, Sherlock only felt different. He seemed like he was just going around in circles, his feelings and thoughts spinning and spinning uncontrollably, Sherlock wasn’t sure how many times he had questioned himself, questioned his overall decision to not abort, to continue with the impossible, stupid, hazardous mistake of his.

John had told him that he still might experience a miscarriage or some sort of problem, which would ultimately end in an operation to remove the foetuses, and if he didn’t experience such things, then they would grow to full term and Sherlock would still have to have an operation to remove them. Sherlock had never wanted children, had never even thought about it, and now he was expecting two with his best friend and flatmate. 

Pushing down on his stomach with his hand Sherlock felt nothing but sinew and walked his fingers along the bumps of his abdominal muscles to touch the sore, flat plane of his chest, poking one nipple with a hiss and a scowl. He was sure the hormones wrecking him would alter and change some parts of his figure, it was logical; his body was preparing for the pregnancy and therefore would adjust accordingly. Would he grow breasts? Would he be able to nurse with them? Would they go afterwards? What about his stomach, would his body be able to go back to how it was afterwards?

“Sherlock? You okay?” John suddenly asked through the door. 

Sherlock sighed and tucked his shirt back in, opening the door to John’s concerned face, “I’m fine.”

John smiled and then held up an ultrasound photo, physically putting it into Sherlock’s limp hand and stepping back. The photo was glossy and caught the light of the toilet in a way that washed one half of it in pure white, distorting and hiding the overall image. Sherlock gripped it in shaking fingers and lifted it, watching as the streak of light moved aside to reveal two grey/white masses amongst a black and grey background; they were labelled “Twin A” and “Twin B”, and Sherlock glared over the edge of the photo at John.

“I was going to call them “Junior A” and “Junior B”, but I thought that was a bit much,” John joked ineptly, his mouth wobbly as it quirked into an unsure smile.

“I don’t want documentation,” Sherlock murmured, his voice wavering as he increased his grip to such a degree that the photo bent in his hand with a crackle. “Why do you keep making me see them?”

“Because you need to--”

“No I don’t!” Sherlock roared. “I may have been unable to destroy them but that doesn’t mean I give a damn about what they look like! They’ll no doubt form some sort of anomaly and die anyway, they are not meant to be where they are, my body isn’t meant to house offspring—what I have is a disorder, a mutation, I am a man, not a woman, I cannot, should not, carry children!”

John gave Sherlock a dirty and disappointed look, shaking his head in anger, “You’re lying; you do give a damn. The reason you couldn’t go through with it was because you felt something, you felt guilty and hurt and a barrel of other things! You will look, you will listen; these babies are yours as much as they are mine, Sherlock.”

“How can you stand it? How are you be so composed? How do you want this? Want these? They are abominations! They are mistakes! They are--”

“Innocent in this!” John shouted, turning away and then turning back again swiftly. “They didn’t ask for this. None of this is their fault! The fact that you ruined your own life as well as mine and theirs, is on you, not on them, they are innocent in all of this!” 

Sherlock crumpled the photo in his hand roughly, “You seem happy about it, about having young with your best friend, about being a father--”

“Stop it,” John growled, shoving Sherlock back by the shoulder. “Why are you always lashing out? I’m just as scared, as you are, Sherlock. I am. You don’t know what I’ve been thinking or feeling. I’m angry, I’m afraid, I’m confused, I’m shocked, I’m hugely conflicted…and I’m unprepared; unprepared for so many things. I’ve barely slept, Sherlock…” 

John covered his face and then sighed a long, deep, shaky sigh, glancing at Sherlock with a determined set to his shoulders when a few minutes of silence had passed, “I’m scared but I’m here for you, I’m willing to make this work, to see it out till the end and not rush or harm you—There are worse ways, worse families, than us. I’ve met and seen children pulled back and forth between parents, seen them traumatised and tortured by being used as cannon fodder, seen them dragged into care or abandoned…we won’t do that. I know we’ve not spoken at length about what will happen if you go to full term, but I know it won’t be half as bad as what I’ve witnessed over the years. We don’t hate each other, and as much as you deny it, I know you’re not going to fob them off later, I know you’ll make sure everything is golden and right before we do anything else. You’re a good man, Sherlock. Always have been.”

Sherlock looked away and threw the crumpled image into the nearby bin, pushing passed John and moving out of the room. The scent of the receptionist hit Sherlock full force and he staggered a moment, covering his nose and mouth with one hand. He turned to glower at her and suddenly his eyes pulsed into sharp focus and the overload of data, of noise and smell and sight, the almost constant stream of information, was almost too much for him to handle and Sherlock twitched forcefully with a gasp. 

The waiting room was boisterous and deafening, and someone knocked into Sherlock on his or her way out, sending Sherlock back against the corner of a wall. Sherlock’s eyes flitted hysterically between everyone and he clutched at his head, gripping handfuls of his hair roughly, his senses abruptly heightened to immeasurable levels as he sank to the floor.

_Addicted to pain medication, heroin dealer, allergic to her seven cats, houses illegal dog fighting, having an affair with his wife’s cousin, suicidal, growing weed in his back room, closeted homosexual, horse breeder, serial gambler, flouriest, natural brunette, in a sexual relationship with her brother, carrying her husband’s brother’s baby, antisocial but lonely, sadistic, mother of ten children all from different fathers, all staring at him, staring at him, staring at him, staring at him…_

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock’s wrists and then his face, crouching and blocking out the whole room. “Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me! Look at me, Sherlock! It’s okay, calm down… you’re having a panic attack, look at me, focus on me!”

_Three-day-old shirt and tie, trouble sleeping, missed spot whilst shaving, no breakfast, crumpled ultrasound photo in top pocket, had kicked wall with tip of shoe, twice…_

“That’s it,” John whispered, waving someone away violently. “Don’t! Don’t…it’s okay, Michelle. It’s okay. I’m just going to take him home, could you get someone to cover for me for a bit? Thanks.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be helped up and led outside, fighting a dizzy spell and a bout of queasiness. Outside was almost just as bad and Sherlock groaned, screwing his eyes shut and covering his mouth and nose tightly, turning towards John when he was manhandled.

“What happened? Are you okay?” John asked, the rustling of his clothes loud in Sherlock’s ears. “It’s okay…I’m just hailing a taxi now.”

“You should get her fired,” Sherlock murmured after a long moment, licking his dry lips behind his hand.

“What? Who? Michelle? Sherlock, I’m not getting her fired because of her choice in perfumes,” John said with a sigh.

“What about the stealing?”

John took Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him gently into the awaiting cab, sitting closely beside him so that their legs touched, and leaned forward to speak with the driver. Sherlock listened to him check his pockets for his wallet and then rummage through it, one of John’s hands suddenly resting on Sherlock’s knee. 

“She’s stealing?” John asked after a moment. “Stealing what, exactly?”

“What isn’t she stealing is a better question,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing his hand harder into his face and leaning closer to John when the smell of the taxi made his head spin unpleasantly. “…You made two copies of the photo, so why did you take the one I threw away?”

“Because it’s yours,” John whispered, patting Sherlock’s knee. “Now, when we get back, you’re going to bed, but not before you take several glasses of water and eat something, you got it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed quietly.


	7. Chapter 7

John marked the day on the calendar as he drank his morning tea and counted quickly, sighing through his nose. They were just starting on the week nine of the pregnancy, and by the end of it the foetuses would measure about 2.3cm in length and weigh less than 2g, with fused eyelids and miniature earlobes. John wondered about the sex of them for what felt like the millionth time and shook the thought from his head, he couldn’t check, not yet. 

He turned as Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen and watched silently as he stole John’s plate of breakfast only to put it back down with a look of disgust, covering his nose, turning away and then rushing to the bathroom. John pursed his lips and quickly sat down to devour it and put the empty plate in the sink. Sherlock hadn’t been eating as much as he should, and whatever he did eat only seemed to come back up. Although worried, John knew that Sherlock was not suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum, an excessive bout of nausea and vomiting; Sherlock was not being sick up to fifty times a day, John had counted, and Sherlock wasn’t overly dehydrated. 

John bustled around to make Sherlock his own breakfast but stopped half way through and frowned, concerned at how long Sherlock was taking in the bathroom. Walking into the living room John took a breath to call out to him but jerked back in surprise when Sherlock burst from his room, fully dressed and looking delighted.

“Sherlock?”

“Ah! You’re finished with your frankly nauseating breakfast, good. Get your coat. Lestrade text me,” Sherlock said in a rush, grabbing for his coat and scarf with giddy excitement. “This might not take long. Two bodies, both shot in the head, one murder weapon…fully loaded and untouched.”

“No.”

Sherlock pushed back his hair, ruffling it, and ignored John completely, “One way in, bolted from the inside, no open windows, no sign of a struggle—well, apparently no sign, you know what the police are like. Plus, Anderson is there, so he’s probably overlooked--”

“No!” John interrupted, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. “You’re not going.”

Sherlock frowned, “Yes I am.”

“No. No, you’re not.” John said seriously. “Sherlock, have you forgotten that you’re…pregnant?”

“No,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“You’re not going.”

“I suppose you’re going to stop me then?” Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow and roughly yanking out of John’s grip, heading for the door. 

John grasped the back of Sherlock’s coat strongly, “Sherlock--!”

“I’m not dying for goodness sake!” Sherlock hissed, struggling away from John. “Pregnant women go on working, why can’t I?”

“They don’t neglect their bodies!” John retorted, slamming the door closed with one hand as Sherlock went to leave. “You need to eat, you need to rest—you need to take care of yourself, Sherlock! During a case…you don’t do that. I can’t let you go if that’s what’s going to happen.”

“Why? Afraid I might endanger your offspring?” Sherlock sneered. 

John shoved the door closed again when Sherlock yanked on it, “No, you idiot! I’m afraid for you! For your health!”

Sherlock looked away and after a moment sighed, “I’m fine,” he said softly. “This won’t take long. I need this. I need something else to occupy my mind, John. I can’t just sit here and forever be bombarded with what I’ve done and what’s happening to me! I need to concentrate on other things, I need the work!”

“Sherlock…”

“You’ll be with me. If anything goes wrong you can make sure I’m okay. You can do…whatever is necessary,” Sherlock told him. “Just let me go.”

John shifted his weight and shook his head but stepped away from the door and grabbed for his coat, “At least have a drink before we go…”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and stalked into the kitchen, John hot on his heels. He noticed the breakfast laid out for him and shot John a tender look, picking up the glass of milk and drinking it all in four impressive gulps. Sherlock put the empty glass back down, hesitated and then all but dived at the food eating half of it in a sudden frenzy, moaning in enjoyment. John stifled a grin and waited with his hands behind his back until Sherlock finished and rushed passed with a flush of embarrassment.

“I’m holding you personally responsible for my lack of deduction skills,” Sherlock muttered, throwing open the door and racing down the stairs, jumping the last three and all but bolting out onto the street, hailing a taxi with one sweep of his arm.

John sat close to him inside the vehicle and flicked a sideways glance towards him in apprehension when Sherlock wrinkled his nose and touched his forehead with his fingertips, his eyes flitting wildly around the cab and along the driver, pupils dilated and contracting rapidly. 

“You okay?” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded brusquely with a tensed expression and pushed his fingers suddenly to his mouth, breathing deeply through his nose as his face paled. John grabbed his knee in response and after a moment tapped his fingers in Morse, breathing in relief when Sherlock tilted his head, attention focused and mouth quirking briefly. 

As John continued the tapping he tried to calm his own rattled nerves and beating heart. He hadn’t thought or planned for when Sherlock would want to be involved in a case, there was no way to stop him, not really, and John hadn’t given it the consideration it deserved. John had to admit that he was pleased to see Sherlock so happy, to see him smile, after seeing him so sombre and angry and scared for all those weeks, but Sherlock would be better off without the excitement of a case until more time had passed, until they had gotten more of a handle on what was happening and what was going to happen. The first trimester was sometimes the trickiest, especially with twins, and John didn’t want anything to endanger Sherlock’s well being, more so since John had neglected to tell Mike about what had happened and asked for assistance. 

However, if they did wait, that would mean Sherlock might be further along by that time, which would only worry John more and would only make what was happening more stressful for them both. What would he say to Lestrade at that point? How would John explain Sherlock’s change in appearance? John clenched his eyes shut fretfully and pushed the thought from his head, he couldn’t think about things like that, didn’t want to think about them, John knew it would eventually come up in the near future, but at that moment, he really didn’t want to focus too much on it.

John hated himself for half hoping that the pregnancy would fail, as it would be overall better for Sherlock’s health and it would be less stressful for John himself, but there was still a part of him that wanted it to play out, a very small, selfish part, that yearned for a family no matter how strong he fretted or how many times he nervously paced in his room and worried about Sherlock. Since the second ultrasound John had spent minutes, verging on hours, staring at the photo and tracing the shapes of the foetuses with his fingers over and over again until he started doing it in his sleep. 

John snapped back from his thoughts when the cab stopped and Sherlock leaped out, stalking happily over to a waiting Lestrade. John paid the fare and joined Sherlock quickly, looking at his face to gauge how he was doing and then smiling tightly at Lestrade in greeting. They followed Lestrade into the bungalow where the crime had taken place and Sherlock staggered a moment when they entered the room with the bodies, his eyes widening.

“Sherlock?” John asked anxiously with a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, sniffing and then inhaling deeply as he walked close to bend over the first body with interest, his eyes shifting in rapid movements and his mouth curving into a smile. 

“Is he…okay?” Lestrade frowned, tilting his head along with John as Sherlock flexibly twisted to get a better look down the length of the corpse. “I mean he’s not normally so…so—I don’t know. There’s just something different about him?”

John glanced at Lestrade fleetingly and cleared his throat with a shrug, watching as Sherlock shot to his feet and moved to stand in the centre of the room, his eyes roaming with intense penetratingly clarity, gaze sharp and overly vigilant. 

“He’s not high is he?” Lestrade asked, only half joking. 

Sherlock turned abruptly and stalked over to one of the windows, cocking his head and reaching out a hand, fingers hovering just inches away from the window frame. Sherlock grinned widely and with a sharp exclamation motioned Lestrade over to point at the distorted body of a bullet buried into the frame. He then left Lestrade and bent over the second corpse, leaping over to kneel at the opposite side and all but stuck his nose into the bullet wound, eyeing the damaged skin around it and then tracking his gaze down the cadaver’s length.

John walked over slowly and smiled when Sherlock shot him a lightheadedly ecstatic expression, “Having fun?”

“Ooh, lots,” Sherlock replied, voice rough and rumbling as he stood up, grabbed John’s sleeve and strode him around the room. 

***

John panted and skidded into the mouth of the alley, banging his knee in the process, and sprinted over to where he could see that Sherlock was grappling with the murderer. Sherlock dodged a punch to the face with a wicked smirk and delivered an uppercut that sent the man staggering backwards and hitting the back of his head. Sherlock stepped over to grab him again and the murderer whipped out a black gun, outlined briefly by the light of the nearby streetlamp. John’s heart stuttered but the man didn’t fire, instead he kicked out, catching Sherlock suddenly in the stomach and sending back into the opposite wall with a look of utter panic and pain on his face, his hands scrambling at his midriff. The murderer grinned, sadistic and evil, and levelled the gun at Sherlock’s forehead, finger poised on the trigger when Sherlock grimaced and looked up. 

Seeing red John knocked bodily into the murderer, knocking the gun from his hands and straddling the man’s waist. John punched him once, twice, three times, and then grabbed his head, slamming it down repeatedly into the floor with a flood of rage, his vision throbbing.

“John!” Sherlock rasped. “John! John…st-stop! Stop, John! John you’ll kill him!”

John jerked and froze with his hand fisted tightly into the man’s hair, and looked over at Sherlock in shock. Sherlock was hunched over on his knees, scowling in pain with one arm wrapped around his waist. He had been sick from the blow to the stomach and crawled away from the evidence slowly, grabbing John’s shoulder in a steely grip.

“Let him go…Lestrade is…is…on his way…” Sherlock gasped, wincing and then looking down with a frown, tears suddenly pouring down his face. “John…”

John jumped off the unconscious murderer and grabbed Sherlock close in overwhelming concern, “Christ…Sherlock, I…I told you! I told you not to chase him! Bloody hell, Sherlock…you could have been killed! He almost had you! One more second and you would have had a bullet in your brain, you complete and utter idiot!”

With his heart in his throat John pulled Sherlock to his feet and leaned him against the wall, dropping his hands to Sherlock’s middle with a full body tremble. Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pushed him away with a shake of his head, bowing his shoulders slowly.

“I…I hit my head,” Sherlock grunted, taking one of John’s hands to the blood-soaked curls at the back of his scalp. “I’m bleeding…might have a concussion. A mild one. It’s why I was sick.”

“But, Sherlock--”

“It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” Sherlock whispered, still not letting John assess his stomach. “It shocked me more than anything. I was…too close for it to do any real damage, he had no room to swing…there was little to no power behind it…” 

John swallowed around the lump in his throat and glanced briefly at the alley entrance when the police arrived, “Still…I’d like to have a look…”

“At home,” Sherlock mumbled, flinching when John prodded the knock at his skull and then turning to face Lestrade. “He attacked me. John stopped him. I want to go home, you don’t need me now.”

Lestrade glanced between them both with narrowed eyes and then regarded the beaten murderer before sighing and nodding, “Right. Get going then. Get yourself looked at. I’ll stop by later to get a statement from both of you, and you better get them done. Go on, get out of here.”

John smiled tightly at him in thanks and apology and helped Sherlock to the side of the road for Sherlock to skilfully hail down a cab. On the way back John stared at Sherlock nervously, his eyes shifting from Sherlock’s head to his stomach and back again in an endless loop.

He felt sick with worry and wasn’t entirely sure if the pain in his chest and the sting in his eyes was wholly for Sherlock himself. John looked away and rubbed the bridge of his nose, glaring at the back of the cabbie’s head and then out the window, focusing on Sherlock’s reflection after a moment and watching as Sherlock tenderly touched his head and leaned back in the seat, his free hand fisted tightly against his stomach. John wanted to shake him, to yell at him and to hug him all at once. Sherlock had always been reckless, they both had been, and normally John would have merely reprimand the ingenuous Sherlock and then dissolved into giggles about the entire situation, sitting in his chair and nursing whatever injury he’d sustained whilst following Sherlock’s ridiculous lead. However, things weren’t the same as they had been, John doubted he’d look back on the recent particular case with anything but an upturned stomach. 

For a moment John wondered if Sherlock had done it on purpose, had chased the murderer against John’s wishes to endanger himself on purpose, had seen the kick coming, and had let it connect, perhaps hoping to put a definite end to his mistake once and for all? John turned and looked at Sherlock, watched a rolling tear wet the pale skin of Sherlock’s cheek, and ignored his irrational thoughts immediately. How could he think such a thing, even for a moment?

“Do you still feel sick?” John asked lowly, reaching to cover Sherlock’s hand gently.

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled. “But I’m not sure if it’s over the head injury or the fact that the cab driver has had sexual relations with a farmyard animal mere hours ago.”

John laughed aloud before he could stop himself and then frowned in disgust, “Are you serious?” he asked, shooting a glance at the driver to see if he had heard them.

“I wish I wasn’t,” Sherlock complained, covering his face with the sleeve of his coat.

John looked away quickly and tried to regain his composure and hold back the bout of manic laughter that threatened to escape. He was still mighty angry with Sherlock, angry and worried, but when wasn’t he angry and worried about Sherlock, more so recently? John stroked Sherlock’s knuckles and then squeezed his shoulder, moving to feel the back of his head again, ignoring his groan of protest. 

“We’ll wash the blood out when we get back,” John told him, “And then I’ll take a better look, but it feels like a small gash and you’ll have one hell of a lump there in the morning.”

“Hm. I know,” Sherlock replied, peeking over at John briefly. “Not as big as the one Mr Thompson will have though…”

“Was that his name? I forgot he had one, in all honestly. I just kept calling him “that murdering, sadistic, arsehole” this whole time,” John muttered, parting more of Sherlock’s curls to feeling around the knock. “One thing I am glad for though, out of this whole thing, is the amount of time it took to find him.”

Sherlock inclined his head slowly, “I told you it wouldn’t take long.”

When the taxi pulled up outside the flat, John paid the driver without looking at him and helped Sherlock inside, pulling his coat off him and leading him into the bathroom. Sherlock didn’t put up a fuss and sat on the edge of the bath obediently as John fetched the first aid box, staring at John’s hands with a pale face and a tense mouth. 

“Take your top off,” John intoned, rearranging things idly to take up time as Sherlock obeyed with slow, methodical movements.

Once Sherlock was done, John turned to him and sighed in concern at the tears drenching Sherlock’s face and the mark at Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock’s stomach was red, the imprint of the murderer’s shoe striped across his pale skin, bruising his navel and catching the bottom of his ribs. John stepped close and reached down to touch and Sherlock flinched, shoving John away on instinct and then covering his face, irritated and ashamed at his reaction.

“Let’s wash the blood from your hair and sort your head out first, yeah?” John whispered, pulling him by the arm to the sink to gently and carefully rinse through his curls, assessing and cleaning out the scratch on his scalp before applying antiseptic. “It’s stopped bleeding already, which is good…”

John wanted to see Sherlock’s stomach; he nervously itched for it and had to fight down the urge to quicken his actions in order to evaluate the damage. Sherlock seemed to be suffering from shock and was still silently crying, his body shaking, and John soothed one hand down his back in silent response, massaging the stiffness from Sherlock’s shoulders. 

John knew that the kick hadn’t been strong enough to do any sort of damage to Sherlock’s organs or the unborn, knew that with the foetuses being so small that meant that they were protected and cushioned by the thick lining of the uterus and Sherlock’s pubic bone, but John still felt a shudder of unease and sickness that only seemed to increase the longer he took at Sherlock’s head wound. He felt cold when he dried Sherlock’s hair and moved Sherlock out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, pushing him back to expose his abdomen. 

“It’s okay. Like you said, he didn’t kick you hard enough to do any sort of damage…it’s okay, it’s fine,” John whispered as Sherlock hissed and turned his face away, cupping his mouth with one hand, as John felt around with a gentle pressure. “Everything seems fine—Hey, Sherlock…Sherlock look at me…look at me, Sherlock, it’s okay.”

Sherlock was sobbing uncontrollably when John brought his hand away and cradled Sherlock’s face instead. Sherlock shook his head and dry heaved a moment, then coughed, exhaling loud and shaky.

“Calm down,” John told him, sitting on the bed with him and shaking him softly and briefly. “Sherlock, calm yourself.”

“I wanted to forget so much that I actually did,” Sherlock suddenly shouted, wrenching his face from John’s hands. “I liked it. Forgetting. I liked acting like nothing was wrong with me…like everything was just as it had always been. God I…I relished the thought of them gone, forever—but then he kicked me and I…I remembered and…and I don’t…I don’t know…I can’t think! I can’t…I can’t…I don’t want to…”

John inhaled with a trembling breath and pulled Sherlock into a firm embrace, holding him strongly against his shoulder until Sherlock stopped fighting him and relaxed, pushing his wet face into the crook of John’s neck. John stroked his heaving back and cupped the back of his sore head, rocking him very faintly and fighting back tears of his own with fierce determination. 

When Sherlock slumped tiredly, hiccupping every so often with a grimace, John helped him out of his shoes and into the bed, applying a cream to his stomach after faint deliberation. Sherlock grabbed his hand as he pulled the covers up, and John paused, leaned down deliberately, and pushed their foreheads together until Sherlock released him and turned carefully onto his side. 

In his own room, John stared at the ultrasound photo again, tracing the shapes of the foetuses with a shaking hand and clenching his eyes shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock stepped aside and allowed Mycroft entry, walking gloomily into the living room and falling into his chair. Sherlock didn’t need to look at Mycroft to know that he knew, but he hadn’t known for some time, in fact, Sherlock was pretty sure Mycroft had only figured it out, or rather had found out, recently, fairly recently judging by the way he held the handle of his umbrella.

“You’ve put on weight,” Mycroft pointed out needlessly, and Sherlock pursed his mouth in annoyance and sat back, pulling his legs up. “John’s doing, I presume?” 

Mycroft gazed silently at Sherlock for a long, tense few moments, and then walked to stand at his side. Sherlock turned his head away and closed his eyes, reaching for the folder nearby and passing it over to Mycroft wordlessly. It contained everything; Sherlock’s first initial scans of the female reproductive organs, Sherlock’s experiment notes, albeit cut short, and the rest was John’s documentation and records, even the creased image of the ultrasound. Sherlock had given John the folder the morning after being kicked to the stomach, and John had touched his shoulder, checked his injuries, and made them both breakfast without a word.

John had checked and then double-checked Sherlock throughout that day, tending to the knock on his head and the bruising at his stomach, careful and fond and worried. Sherlock knew what John had mostly wanted to do, had wanted to ask; John had wanted to take Sherlock back to his office, make sure that there was indeed no damage done on the inside. Although John, like Sherlock himself, had known that there was little to no way that the lacklustre kick had damaged anything, Sherlock had still noticed how often John had stared, worrying his lip or scratching the back of his head nervously, and Sherlock had struggled between wishing something was actually, definitely, wrong with a sort of callous longing, and wishing nothing was wrong at all, so John would stop looking at him. The latter was true, obviously, and Sherlock fell back into the routine of running to the bathroom every few moments to be sick over the following days.

“You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock growled in response and snatched the folder away from him, “You’re lucky I didn’t keep this from you, Mycroft!”

“It would have been difficult to hide this, little brother,” Mycroft replied with a sigh. “Whatever could have possessed you? Well, mummy will be pleased. She’s always wanted grandchildren.”

Sherlock covered his head with his arms, “She mustn’t know…not yet.”

“When then?” Mycroft scoffed. “When you’re as big as a house? Perhaps when the children are just learning to walk?”

“Stop it,” Sherlock shouted, surprising Mycroft into silence. Sherlock glared at him and then slipped fluidly to his feet, pacing before the fireplace and dragging one hand through his hair three times before he stopped and faced Mycroft, blinking his eyes rapidly to fight the sudden welling of tears, and twisting his mouth.

Sherlock wanted to say a million things, perhaps more; he wanted to shout at his brother again, wanted to rant and yell and fight. He couldn’t keep a full handle on his emotions anymore, couldn’t reign in tears or hold back sobs and screams; just when Sherlock thought he had a grasp on himself, another flood of hormones would raid his system, breaking down his barriers in a violent crashing and flooding his brain, his body, like a tsunami, drowning him quickly in a swirling cascade of turmoil. 

Mycroft arched his eyebrow, “Really now,” he breathed, walking over to carefully and cautiously take Sherlock by the shoulder, smiling thinly when Sherlock trapped the tailcoat of Mycroft’s jacket between his two strong fingers. 

“Would you have been able to…terminate?” Sherlock asked out of the blue, voice gruff.

“I wouldn’t have done it in the first place,” Mycroft countered.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, “But if you had! If you were in my position, if you did everything I had done and found out, as I did, that you were--”

“Yes.” Mycroft interrupted briskly, face impassive. “Yes, I would have been able to.”

Nodding, Sherlock stepped away and grabbed for his violin, fiddling with a string idly and then putting it back down. He hadn’t played since it all happened, hadn’t once felt the need to pick his beloved instrument up, tuck it beneath his chin, and escape between its strings. He lightly drifted his fingertips down its body and then snapped the case shut over it loudly, happy that the short burst got rid of some of the tension in his shoulders.

“It’s not too late to do it now,” Mycroft told him. “I could arrange it, in secret.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered, rubbing his eyes roughly.

“But you won’t.”

“I can’t…”

Mycroft moved to Sherlock’s side and narrowed his eyes, raising his brows slowly, “Because they are John’s?”

Sherlock frowned and flicked his eyes absentmindedly around the room. Was that the sole reason, because they were John’s? If he had used a stranger as the sperm donor, would he have rid himself of his little experiment sooner, without remorse? Sherlock couldn’t be sure, though he did know that John’s words had cut him deeply, had stuck with him, and would probably continue to stick with him for a long, long time. Had John’s reaction, John’s words, had some sort of affect on Sherlock’s overall decision to not abort? John had said Sherlock had stolen what might have been one of the happiest moments of his life and that John wished it had happened another way, with another person, and not with Sherlock. The words still hurt Sherlock, and he inwardly winced, rubbing at the ache in his chest; he hadn’t meant to upset John and he intensely regretted taking John’s DNA without proper thought. Sherlock hadn’t planned for a mistake, as he hardly ever made mistakes, and so when it happened, it had thrown Sherlock and shocked him more than anything had for a while.

He glanced down at his covered stomach and then over at the calendar on the wall, marked each day by John, to keep an eye on how things were going. According to John’s scribbled notes, Sherlock was very recently ten weeks pregnant, and in that moment Sherlock was suddenly very conscious of the fact that his pyjama bottoms were digging into the skin of his waist lightly.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked, frowning deeply and looking Sherlock up and down with obvious concern. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said shortly, voice catching in his throat as he turned his back on his brother and pressed his hand above the middle of his pubic bone, relaxing his muscles to feel beyond them, feeling nothing with his fingers but flinching at the sensation of the expanded uterus nestled in his pelvis when he concentrated hard enough, and yanked his hand away.

“You’re going to be sick,” Mycroft told him just before Sherlock lurched forwards, dry heaving into his palm. “Come here.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be bundled back into his chair without a fuss and watched from his lashes as Mycroft promptly filled a glass with water and offered it to him, smoothing the curls from Sherlock’s forehead with a lingering touch to his skin, evidently checking his temperature. It reminded Sherlock of John and he looked at the clock quickly, feeling lightheaded as he checked the time.

“Drink more,” Mycroft insisted, tapping the glass with his index finger and peering at the clock himself. “Don’t you want John to know you’ve spoken to me? Surely John would approve?”

“We…haven’t spoken about telling anybody,” Sherlock murmured. “Not family, anyway. He’s meeting with Mike Stamford today to discuss future plans of surgery.” 

“Ah. I did wonder what he was doing,” Mycroft said with a quirking smile as Sherlock shot him a glower. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s been very good at keeping it all hush-hush, very good indeed. Did you allow me to know because you needed me to keep an…eye on the media? Or was it for brotherly bonding? I must say; it’s been a while.”

“Quiet,” Sherlock grunted, cupping his head and finishing the rest of the water with a loud swallow. “I need you to—God I can’t believe I’m going to say this…I need you to give me work, cases. Specifically work that I don’t necessarily have to leave the house for, because of obvious reasons. It needs to be good work. It needs to keep my attention. I shall refuse any of them that I wish to and you will not force me to do your dirty work for you; if I know you can do it without me then you will do just that! I am not offering myself up as a lapdog, as one of your pathetic, dim-witted government cronies!” 

“Really, Sherlock, must you always be so dramatic,” Mycroft said with a gentle sigh. “Very well, is that all?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes,” he whispered, grabbing out for Mycroft at the last second. “No…”

Mycroft inclined his head, looking like he had predicted there would be more, but did not comment as he faced Sherlock again, his hand very close to clasping Sherlock’s own. Sherlock stared at his brother’s neatly trimmed fingernails and the polished handle of Mycroft’s newly purchased umbrella, and inhaled deeply, grimacing even as he collected himself.

“I don’t—I do not know what will happen once they are…here, if they get here that is. John and I cannot give them a safe life, not with what we do, and so, I have to know that if the choice is made to give them up, that they go to a good family, that they are looked after and given a brighter future than they would have if they stayed here,” Sherlock murmured. “I know John has always wanted…children, but this was unplanned and I’m not quite sure if John is able to--”

Mycroft covered Sherlock’s hand suddenly, “Understood.”

Sherlock looked up at him quickly and then turned his head away, letting Mycroft keep their hands together a moment more, “…Thank you.” He said quietly, clearing his throat and leaning away. “I suppose you’re also going to assist Mike Stamford now, as well as spying further on me.”

“Only a little,” Mycroft replied with a small smile that Sherlock returned. “Good day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock dipped his head and watched Mycroft adjust his umbrella in a way that expressed his fondness for Sherlock in the position of his fingers and then walk softly from the flat without another word, closing the door behind him with a careful and precise movement that made Sherlock’s mouth bend on a chuckle before he covered his face with one hand in sudden sorrow.

**

Sherlock was munching his way through a jam sandwich and glaring at the blaring TV screen when John arrived back to the flat, and Sherlock glanced over at him briefly, running his eyes over his body and face, noting how exhausted and pinched his expression was, how he clenched his jaw and rubbed a hand through his hair. John’s clothes were crumpled, his shoes muddy and coat wet with rain, and Sherlock turned back to the TV with another bite of his sandwich, throwing out an exasperated sweep of his hand.

“She’s lying!” Sherlock bellowed through his mouthful, pulling his legs closer to his body and gripping the edge of the chair with his bare toes as he leaned forwards. “Where’s the evidence that she received that bank statement, ask her! See, nothing, she has nothing. How does she expect to even come close to winning if she has nothing to show for it?”

“What are you watching?” John asked as he fell into his own chair with a sigh.

“Judge Judy,” Sherlock replied, not looking at John. “You walked through the park for an hour and fifteen minutes this morning, in the rain, and just did the same thing before coming home…”

John huffed and leaned his head on one hand, “Yeah. Not hard to understand why.”

“Stamford agreed he’d help,” Sherlock mumbled. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” John breathed. “But he’s risking a lot doing so…we spoke about everything, at length. He’s just as worried as I am about you.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock scowled, licking jam from his fingers and then rummaging around for the biscuit tin. 

“Things can go spectacularly wrong extremely quickly, Sherlock,” John said, watching him and then getting up to walk to his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, swatting John away roughly when John stepped in front of him. “Move! I’m fine, sit down and shut up.”

“Have you been eating what I’ve told you to eat?” John asked, ignoring him and looking over at the calendar before he spotted the folder that Sherlock had left out on the desk. “In hindsight, I should have taken that information with me—So, when would you like to go for another scan? We could…check the gender of them if you like? It’s around this time that it shows I believe.”

Sherlock shoved him aside, “I don’t care.”

John stumbled and fisted his hands, flexing his fingers for ten seconds and then looking back at Sherlock, “Have you been sick the same amount as normal or has it dwindled now? And can you feel any changes at all, anything new that I should know about? How is your chest, still sore?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted, meeting John’s glare with one of his own and then standing up with a growl of frustration, tugging up his top with suddenly shaking hands and grabbing one of John’s hands to slap it onto his bared chest. Sherlock stared at John’s face in tensed silence as John adjusted his hand and pressed on Sherlock’s pectorals and nipples, disregarding the jumping muscles of his middle. Sherlock watched the shift of John’s expressions and the twitch of his mouth. 

“They’d be about 3.1cm long now,” John whispered as he checked Sherlock over, cupping his hand on Sherlock’s middle longer than strictly necessary. “With fingernails and…and they’d be moving too, did you know that? Kicking around and actively swallowing…” 

Sherlock sighed and nodded, letting John talk, and leaned forwards to rest his cheek against John’s forehead. John smelt of rain and disinfectant and soap, and Sherlock closed his eyes, uncurling his fingers from the grip he had of his top to leave his arms hanging at his sides loosely. Sherlock honestly didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to hear anything about what was going on inside him, or what was yet to come. He felt suddenly unnerved and queasy and petrified at the entire prospect, and leant more heavily into John’s presence, only just holding back the rising need to cry and hit out and scream.

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled with his hand still on Sherlock. “I just…talking to Mike today made me realise even more so how impossibly dangerous this is—Christ, you know… he mentioned abortion. Almost instantly, he said it. It was the first thing out of his mouth when I’d finished explaining everything, and I just stared at him silently for a second. I felt so angry, Sherlock, so bloody angry…I wanted to hit him. And it’s weird, because it’s not as if I was angry that he’d suggest it, I was angry that he assumed I hadn’t thought of it, that I hadn’t already discussed it with you, that I hadn’t been adamant that it would be the best course of action to take, that I’d be stupid enough not to think of it, like I wasn’t a doctor myself but an unassuming, uneducated bloke that had no clue about what he’d gotten himself into… Heh, and I…I think he was angry with me for letting it get this far too. He was concerned, but he gave me this look, the type of look I give pregnant teenage girls who thought it was okay not to use protection; a mixture of disappointment, irritation, sympathy, and apprehension. It felt like he treated me like a patient, like another stupid, anxious patient.” 

“You lost your temper with him,” Sherlock muttered, surprised he was listening and taking it all in.

John breathed thickly with a trembling sounding laugh, “Yeah. After a bit I just…I had to take a few minutes. In the end though, Mike said he’d help…said he’d even help if we decided to…to…”

“Give them up,” Sherlock finished for him, pulling away when John ducked his head and then looked up at him with a tight expression. “I don’t want to talk about that right now…not now…and I don’t think you want to, either.”

“No,” John agreed, shaking his head and finally pulling his hand from Sherlock’s skin, forcing a smile onto his face in the next moment. “So…everything seems to be fine. I’d say we should get you in for another scan soon though, just to check up on things. Every…every baby develops differently, even with a twin pregnancy, but I’d still like to take a look—got half a mind to buy an ultrasound machine so we don’t have to go back and forth so much.”

Sherlock settled back into his chair and shrugged, looking away when his eyes blurred with annoying, unneeded, oncoming tears, “Why don’t you? It’s a very useful machine to own.”

John chuckled and it came out strained and loud as he moved away, sitting back in his own chair, “Yeah…”

The fullness of the uterus inside Sherlock was suddenly more pronounced and daunting, and Sherlock bit into a biscuit to distract himself, curling up on his chair and staring at the TV without actually seeing it. He wondered if he should mention to John the nightmares he’d been having but decided against it when he saw the bags under John’s own eyes, promoting how little sleep he was still experiencing. Sherlock wasn’t sure things would ever be the same, even if something went wrong and they lost the foetuses, even if they gave them up once they were born, things between John and himself would forever be strained and twisted, deformed by Sherlock’s mistake. Would John walk away after a while? Would he purposefully drift further and further away from Sherlock in the days, months, and years to come? Perhaps he would take them away, take what is rightfully his and save them from ever knowing anything about Sherlock? Would he take them far and settle in as a single parent, before meeting the right woman and finally getting everything he ever wanted, happy to forget Sherlock ever existed?

Sherlock didn’t realise he was crying until John frowned in concern and the tears on his face dripped down his neck and soaked into his top. He blinked and rubbed his fingers against the wetness on his cheeks, waving John away and getting to his feet to stalk to the bathroom. Sherlock locked the door behind him and slid to sit on the floor, sobbing into his hands and then angrily shouting out, throwing the nearest object at hand. He hated being so compromised, hated feeling what he did, and glared into the middle distance as he fell aside and curled up with his head cushioned on the bathroom rug.

Seconds later he was over the toilet, throwing up the food he’d forced himself to eat earlier, the sound of him retching drowned out the rapid sound of John thumping at the bathroom door in worry. Sherlock slumped back afterwards, wiping his mouth and cupping his head, and then crawled to unlock the door when John’s knocking became too loud for him to endure, the door rattling on its hinges from each forced blow. John grabbed him and gathered him up in his arms instantly and Sherlock allowed the treatment with a blank face smeared with tears.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock intoned when John all but picked him up strongly with a stern and determined expression, carrying him back to the sitting room and placing him down on the sofa. “I’m just a hormonal mess because I’m carrying your offspring. That’s all.”

Sherlock dissolved into unhinged laughter that quickly morphed into loud weeping, and he kicked out when John leaned down to him, covering his had with his hands and arms. He remembered how he’d been with withdrawal, how he’d fought and screamed and trembled, how the dreams and hallucinations had near enough driven him mad; and wished abruptly that he was back suffering it, back in the small room with Mycroft looking in on him with a face full of disappointment and concern, because even then, when he had been soaked in sweat and violently shaking, was better than how he felt and what he was experiencing at that moment. 

Sherlock huffed wetly into his arms at the insane thought and shook his head, flinching when John sat beside him silently and then leaning into him. He took the offered handkerchief after a few moments and turned to push into John’s side, knocking their shoulders together as he wiped his face dry, locking his gaze onto the TV as he quietened slowly and relaxed with a few, deep but shuddering breaths.

“It’s baby brain,” Sherlock joked, relieved when John chuckled, patted his knee and then left it there reassuringly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much emotional Sherlock. Let me know if you get sick of it or not, however I reckon he'd act this way, seeing as he's being pumped with hormones and such.
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's boiling here in good ol' England, and I think it might have affected by brain.
> 
> I think I have written more than I had for the earlier chapters, let me know if you mind at all, or if you want them shorter or longer. Keep in mind, the longer they are, the longer you might have to wait for an update!

After work John found Sherlock standing in the sitting room in his dressing gown and pyjamas, juggling fruit and taking a bite out of the apple whenever it came back around to his right hand, his eyes intensely focused upwards but his face an expressionless mask. Beside him stood a newly bought and state-of-the-art ultrasound machine, the packaging it had come in was haphazardly thrown to the corner in a heap that signified a brutal, heated force; it was the kind of machine that not even St. Barts could afford, and John eyed it with a sudden deep glower, knowing exactly who had, and could, buy such an expensive machine without batting so much as an eyelid.

“Christ sake…” John muttered as he shrugged out of his coat roughly, kicking off his shoes and trying to reign in the swarming anger and panic that came with knowing your flatmate’s brother, whom constantly tried to pry into their lives, had bought them the most expensive ultrasound machine going. “How did he find out?”

He stalked over to the machine, sidestepping Sherlock who acted as if John wasn’t even in the room, his gaze never wavering from the ceiling and his jaw methodically chewing on the apple he continually bit into. There was no note that John could see that had been sent with it, not unless Sherlock had thrown it away, but there was a pile of documents in ring binders off to the side of it, all neatly stacked and alphabetised. John picked one of them up and opened it to a sea of papers and forms, and a littering of images showcasing an extremely gruesome murder that made John pale in horror with a turned stomach; the vivid colour of red was slashed all over, coating everything and everyone within the photos. 

“Sherlock,” John started, as he put it aside to look through the next one, and then another, his eyes flickering between them and the machine and back again. “Sherlock, what is all this?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, only kept on crunching the apple until there was nothing left, in which he then threw it into the bin without looking. He looked unkempt and exhausted, his hair greasy and his skin gleaming with sweat. Sherlock was eleven weeks pregnant and John had not been able to talk him into having another scan since the breakdown in the week prior; Sherlock had been in a dark mood afterwards and although he had eaten what John told him to and had let John examine him, he refused to go anywhere and had hardly left his bedroom for more than a few minutes at a time.

“Sherlock?” John repeated, frowning at him in annoyance and then concern as he noticed the twitch in Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, stop for a second will you? Look at me...what’s happened? What’s wrong? Sherlock—Sherlock, look at me!”

He jerked at John’s bellow, however carried on juggling until John marched forwards and grabbed his arm, “Let go,” Sherlock suddenly snarled, turning from John and sitting in his chair, fingers pressing against his lips. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine, Sherlock,” John pointed out as he shifted his weight, looked away and sighed, indicating the machine. “Mycroft, I presume?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, shortly and angrily.

“Did he come by himself to—?”

“No.”

“No. No, of course not.” John exhaled deeply, moving to hover at Sherlock’s side, “Do you think he has the flat bugged, again?”

Sherlock shook his head and then stood up, pushed passed John a little too roughly, picked up the pile of folders and left the room without a word, his dressing gown billowing out behind him dramatically. John watched him go and if he weren’t already used to Sherlock’s sudden mood changes he’d blame it on the pregnancy; although John was worried about the state of his appearance and the barely held back twitching and shaking. Was Sherlock trying to hold back his emotions and bodily functions again? Was he in pain but was keeping it from John for some reason?

John took a step to follow him but the slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door stilled him and after a moment he sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair and over his brow, and then turned to admire the ultrasound machine with more interest. At least he could keep an eye on things in private, instead of hauling Sherlock in and out of his place of work and making his colleagues more and more suspicious and nosy; John already had to fight down the urge to yell and confront whenever he overheard them whispering and gossiping about him and Sherlock. It was always the same thing, always the same fight, and John was getting sick and tired of it all.

As he inspected the machine John thought about the unborn babies, thought about them kicking and moving and stretching; they would both measure about 4cm in length at that moment, all fully formed, with fingers and toes. Sherlock was getting close to the end of the first trimester and could develop a linea nigra and difficulty sleeping, as well as problems concerning the weakening of his pelvic floor muscles. 

John wanted to see them, wanted to hear them, wanted to capture them on paper to hold in his hand and stare at during the night. He wondered about their genders again and felt a spike of resentment towards Sherlock for not allowing him to do a scan when he was ten weeks to see if he could have found out. It was rare though, John knew, and many found out for sure around twelve weeks onwards, nonetheless John had seen documented and recorded verification that the sex organs of an unborn had been seen that early on, and so he had wanted to know almost desperately if he was having a boy and a girl or two boys or two girls. Conversely, with Sherlock eleven weeks, it could be even more possible to determine the sex, and if not, then John was sure the following week they’d be able to know.

John’s unexpected and exultant smile stretched his cheeks almost painfully and he licked his lips, stifling it and clearing his throat, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. There was still the lingering shadow of miscarriage hanging over them, there was still a chance they’d lose the babies even before Sherlock made it to the second trimester, and the thought made John’s chest hurt, made him feel suddenly, and horridly sick. It was a mess, everything was so screwed up and crazy; John knew it was best for them both if such things happened, yet John had fallen prey to sentiment more than once; he might not have been reacting like Sherlock had been, with fits of hormonal hysterics and uncontrollable weeping, making himself sick with panic, but had instead spent nights, and hours and hours at work, staring at the ultrasound photos and imagining a life with two children that had Sherlock’s eyes and John’s hair, smearing food into the grooves of the table and drawing stick figures on the walls. 

John had been so focused on Sherlock and helping him through everything, that he hadn’t noticed how much he had come to want the babies to survive, how much he hoped and prayed that everything would work out so he could look at them and touch them; and, as stupid and strange as it might sound, John wanted to smell them, wanted to press his mouth and nose against the crown of their heads and just inhale the scent of them. John had previously scoffed with amusement and irritation at the irrational actions of parents to be, had acknowledged their concern for their babies but never from a personal level; John had never imagined how it could have felt, not until recent weeks. John had never been so fraught to protect and hold and see something or someone as much as he did about his unborn children huddled inside his best friend’s pelvis, he felt as if he was going insane with apprehension, and was pretty sure he had picked his blankets to shreds and ruined his carpet from his pacing.

When he had spoken to Mike, had heard his friend casually and passionately mention abortion and then adoption, John had wanted to hurt him, badly, and run back to the flat to gather Sherlock up in his arms and never let go. There were two sides to him; one was just like Mike and continually told John how stupid he was, and how he needed to get rid of the babies, not only because it was completely insane to continue, but because of Sherlock’s health and mental state; whereas the other side to him fought and shouted for John to look after Sherlock, make sure both he and the babies made it, and told him that it was perfect, utterly and beautifully perfect, and that it all worked out brilliantly, allowing John to keep hold of his friend, to be more securely linked to him, and to have a family at the same time. John ultimately always picked Sherlock over his girlfriends, over his job, over his own priorities, and in doing so had limited the time he had to find a woman, settle down and start a family, but with Sherlock pregnant he had somehow eliminated the need to do such things, and had in fact, briefly, entertained the thought of focusing solely on being a parent with Sherlock. Perhaps Sherlock could pass down his genius to them?

Taking a shaky breath, John tried and failed to push everything aside, and grabbed the machine, moving it to a better place before looking back at Sherlock’s door and rolling it over with determination. He knocked, briskly, and entered without waiting for an answer.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed and turned sharply to look at John, wiping his face with the back of his hand violently, “No, John. Get out.”

“No,” John replied, loudly setting up the machine and tugging it closer to the bed. “Roll your top up.”

“Get out!” Sherlock growled. “I’m busy. I don’t want to indulge your pathetic need to be both a doctor and an expecting father. It’s nauseating and I’ve had quite enough of throwing up for one day, thank you very much.”

“Roll your top up,” John repeated, taking in the sight of Sherlock again with sudden anxiety and reaching over to rub his fingers over his friend’s clammy forehead before Sherlock had time to swat him away. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. 

John sat on the edge of the bed to get nearer and tried to lock eyes with Sherlock, catching his wrist to check his pulse, “Have you been vomiting more than normal? Look at me, tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock struggled away from John and turned his back, “I’m just overly warm. That’s all.”

“Ah. Could be hot flushes,” John nodded, rubbing Sherlock’s back before he got up to fiddle with the machine some more, finding the gel in a small compartment in the side along with some paper towels in the one opposite. “Though you don’t look that flushed…you sure you’re not sick? You don’t feel unwell at all? You’re more likely to catch a cold during--”

“I was flushed earlier, before you arrived, then I just started sweating,” Sherlock mumbled over the top of John, his head bowed. “Must we do this now? I’m…not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood,” John shot back with a half-hearted glare. “It won’t take long, come on. I need to make sure everything is okay, that you’re okay.”

Sherlock scoffed in reply and glanced over his shoulder, “I’m perfectly well…all things considered.”

“Roll your top up,” John instructed again, gesturing for Sherlock to lie back with an impatient hand. “Come on.”

For several long, silent, minutes, Sherlock stayed turned away, hunched forwards awkwardly, and John sighed in disappointment and wretchedness, trying to reel back the bloom of desperation at checking on Sherlock and the babies more closely; except then Sherlock wiped his face with both hands, sniffed loudly, and turned to rest back, undoing his gown and rolling up his top, eyes locked on the far wall.

Sherlock’s body was much the same, though John noticed distantly that his nipples looked slightly swollen and flushed pink, “Still sore?” John asked, looking at them pointedly.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, shuffling further to the edge of the bed at John’s soft signal, seeing him even as he resolutely looked away.

John assessed them lightly with a few presses of his fingers and then turned to pick up the gel and towels, “Let me know if it gets too much or if anything else changes, other than the colour.”

“You mean when I start growing breasts?”

“We don’t know if you will or not,” John told him as he eyed his flatmate’s chest again and positioned the towels over the hem of Sherlock’s loose pyjama bottoms. “And if you do, well…we will deal with it if we need to.”

“Don’t show me this time,” Sherlock said curtly when John uncapped the gel, voice unkind and eyes icy. “I mean it, I don’t want to see or hear them at all.”

John glared at him and leaned down to look him in the face grimly, “Why?” he asked, using the same tone of voice back to him. “Why don’t you want to know anything about them?—Sherlock, if this goes on, if we see this through to the end, you’ll have to see them--”

“No,” Sherlock interjected. “I won’t.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you continually, doing this? To me; to yourself? If you wanted nothing to do with them, if you didn’t care, if you wanted rid of them, then you would have gone through with the abortion!” John hissed, overcome with emotion. “Sherlock…I know you’re scared, so am I, I’m bloody terrified, but…”

“You want them, that’s why you want to scan me so regularly,” Sherlock whispered, eyes suddenly wet with tears. “You’ve always wanted them—not with me, of course, but you always saw your future with children, as you told me, as I always knew. I did not. I do not. If I am frightened, it’s for you, not for myself. I’m frightened that it’ll affect you the most if anything happened, that you’ll…leave because of it.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’d understand. Completely. I know what I’ve done to you,” Sherlock said, taking a deep and long breath, looking annoyed with the situation and then abruptly detached. 

“I want to scan you so regularly to make sure nothing happens to you,” John told him. “Yes, I… I have…emotional responses to the unborn babies; but I also have an emotional response to you. Sherlock, you’re my best friend, I want to make sure that you are healthy, that you are well, that nothing will jeopardise your wellbeing—I will not leave, and I will not stop caring for you. You’re going to have to put up with that and with me.”

Sherlock glanced at him sidelong, “For how long?”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, throwing an arm up in aggravation. “You really expect me to go? To just up and leave you; after all we’ve been through, not just with this, but also with everything up to this point? I’m not going anywhere, and if you’re trying to push me away because you stupidly think it would save me from unknown trauma, then--”

“I told Mycroft,” Sherlock cut in, seemingly bored with the direction of their conversation, and moved to rest his hands on his ribs. “He knew because I let him know. I needed work; I needed something to do, something to focus on. I couldn’t very well go to Lestrade because it would raise too many questions.” 

John stared at him and then tilted his head, “Okay, and you didn’t tell me this until now, because?”

“It was irrelevant,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Irrelevant?” John repeated with a short, brisk, laugh. “Nothing is irrelevant when it comes to Mycroft Holmes.”

“As much as it pains me to say it, he’s the best person to aid us at this given time.”

“What, by spying on us and buying us overpriced machinery?” John scoffed. “Jesus—well, what did he say? And what about Mike? You could have told me you wanted Mycroft to be the one that we turn to--”

“I don’t want that,” Sherlock frowned. “But I needed the work and he was the only, rational, solution. Besides, do you really think we could have kept this hidden from him? Think he’ll just wave away my constant trips back and forth the doctor’s office? He would have found out sooner or later, John, it was only a matter of time.”

John nodded, “Fine. Yes. I know, that, but I was hoping for a little more time, or at least to discuss it with you beforehand,” he said, squirting the gel on Sherlock’s stomach after it looked to be the end of their conversation.

***

The scan had not gone the same as the rest of them had, John had tried his very best to keep his emotions and reactions in check, tried to be as professional as he had been before, but was unable to suppress the skip of his heart and his immediate response to get closer to the monitor once it had showed the obvious shapes of the babies. John had moved close so quickly that the transducer had slipped from Sherlock’s abdomen altogether, prompting a silent look from Sherlock and a restless drumming of his fingers against his sternum. Once John had replaced the probe at the appropriate angle, showing the babies once more, he had been happy to note that they were the perfect size for the week of pregnancy Sherlock was in, and although Sherlock’s stomach had still not distended everything else was completely fine. 

The babies had jumped and stretched and arched in front of John’s eyes; Twin A had been less active than Twin B, whom had shifted and strained almost constantly, throwing arms and legs and arching back a head, but both had been perfect, utterly perfect. John had tried for a long time to find out their genders, so long that Sherlock had ultimately complained about needing the loo when John had been unsuccessful due to how the babies were positioned and the continuous moving of Twin B. John had then taken several shots of them, measured them as best he could and listened to their heartbeats, ignoring the sour expression that Sherlock had shot his way at the sound, and had even turned the screen slightly and accidentally on purpose to see Sherlock’s reaction to the wriggling babies. 

Oddly, given what he had said earlier, Sherlock had reacted with sudden, almost intense interest and had sat up to get a better view, reaching to grab the monitor, almost tipping the entire machine sideways in his haste and had then shoved it away just as quickly, sprung to his feet and stalked into the bathroom, leaving John with the probe poised awkwardly and smeared in gel.

John wasn’t deterred from Sherlock’s behaviour and couldn’t seem to stop smiling when he packed everything away, powered down the machine and fetched his notebook and the folder of documentation to write in the latest statistics, almost drunk on delight and unable to shake from it. He went over the progressing information, double checking everything before he added the most recent, and then pondered taking more blood from Sherlock to check his haemoglobin level, as well as another urine test to check for diabetes, albumin and ketones. In fact, John also needed to take Sherlock’s weight for the week, something he needed to check beside the weight Sherlock was the week prior to see if he was eating enough.

Sitting at the desk in the sitting room, John wrote down the information concerning the babies’ heart rates; the positions of the babies’ heads in the pelvis; the presentation of which way up the babies’ were; and that there was still no oedema, swelling, in Sherlock’s feet, ankles or hands. All in all, once he went back over everything, John knew that from a doctor’s prospective the pregnancy was going very well, almost flawlessly, and he had no major concerns in any way of the safety of the babies or Sherlock. He wondered briefly about the height of the fundus, the top of Sherlock’s womb, and frowned down at his folder as he tried to at least estimate it from the data available and his personal experience as a doctor.

He glanced up as Sherlock returned to the living room, sprawling out on his chair with a ring binder in his hands, “I’ve left the machine in your room,” John told him gently, treading carefully, unsure whether Sherlock was mad or not. “Thought it would be best.”

“Hm.”

“And if you are having any trouble with…incontinence, just know that it’s all normal and extremely common, and if you do regular pelvic floor exercises, it will prevent further…accidents.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to John and then away, “I’ve had no problems concerning that.”

“Good. Good, but if you do, just…just do what I told you.”

“Will do,” Sherlock sighed, flashing him a fake smile that made John glare. 

John closed the folder and notebook in front of him and cleared his throat, “The… symptoms, the overall fatigue and vomiting, seem to have been easing off now, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock slouched further in his chair, “Nope.”

“Oh. Well, they will, they normally do anyway, during this time,” John said, knowing he was rambling, “The second trimester can be somewhat enjoyable when it comes, not always, of course, but that’s what many other women have said--”

“I’m not “many other women”, John. I am a man, I man with a uterus that is gradually filling with writhing infants,” Sherlock said brusquely.

John exhaled slowly through his nose, “Can you feel them?”

“No.”

John watched Sherlock as he read through one of the files that Mycroft had supplied him with, noticing the way Sherlock shifted his back with a grimace and then leaned forwards, twisting his spine. He had back pain, probably pelvic pain as well, and John debated whether to do anything about it; he wanted to help, wanted to further discuss the future and to find out Sherlock’s real thoughts and feelings on the babies, instead of the mask and block that Sherlock obviously and persistently put up to try and discourage him. John knew Sherlock was anxious and scared of what was going on, because John would be feeling the exact same thing; of course it didn’t help that Sherlock did it to himself, but John could still sympathise with him. 

Truthfully, for a few days or so, John had been nervously waiting for Sherlock to change his mind, to turn around with cold eyes and a condescending smile and tell John that he wanted to abort them after all, that it had all been a sick, twisted, experiment all along and he wanted to rip them and the womb from his system and be done with it all; however Sherlock hadn’t done any of that, something John was honestly relieved about. Sherlock had only been a hormonal mess, a normal person with emotions and reactions for a change, and though it had been a lot of work, John was grateful to see that side to him, the side Sherlock didn’t let anyone else see. 

“When did you learn to juggle?” John asked randomly, surprising Sherlock enough for him to look away from a rather horrific looking crime scene photo. “Before, you were juggling fruit— I didn’t know you could do that.”

Sherlock moved position on the chair and looked up as John pushed to his feet, “What are you doing?”

“Asking you a question?”

“No.” Sherlock said slowly, intentionally indicating to John standing up. “What are you doing?”

John gestured with one hand uncertainly, “I was going to offer a massage, if that’s all right?”

“Why?”

“You’re in discomfort,” John replied with a self-conscious shrug. “Why else?”

Sherlock looked away and then got to his feet, awkwardly turning to John for instruction and moving with him to the settee, sitting between John’s legs with an exaggerated sigh, opening the file on his lap to continue reading. John felt slightly embarrassed with the position for a moment but then shuffled and dug his fingers skilfully into Sherlock’s lower back, using the opportunity to then move them around to feel Sherlock’s hips and stomach. 

“Seven.”

John frowned and paused, staring at the back of Sherlock’s head, “What?”

“I was seven, when I learned how to juggle,” Sherlock clarified, leaning into John’s fingers when he continued the massage. “I picked it up after I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to a travelling circus.”

“You didn’t like circuses?” John asked as a smile blossomed over his face. “Was it the clowns? It was the clowns for me.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, “No. Clowns didn’t bother me. I just had wanted to see this exhibit that was running at the same time instead, yet my mother insisted. Said it would be “more entertaining than the rocks and soils exhibition, Sherlock dear!” And offered candy floss and toffee apples as a sort of bribery tactic.”

John laughed and lifted one shoulder, “Well, was she right?”

“…Not exactly,” Sherlock answered, glancing over at John with a small smile. “I still would have rather seen the soil.”

John grinned and shook his head in amusement, “Learn anything else from the circus? Can you swallow swords? Do a bit of tightrope walking? Spin plates? Did you try your hand at training animals?”

“I trained my dog to jump through hoops and dance with me?” Sherlock replied, turning almost fully around when John burst into giggles. “I even put my mother’s fluffy scarf around his neck to give him a mane.”

“Oh dear lord, why can I picture that so vividly?” John gasped between his laughter, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he composed himself. 

“Mycroft became a magician for a time,” Sherlock murmured, as if he was just remembering and reliving the memories. “He would wear a cape and a top hat and have this set of wands; one would bend, another would turn into a bouquet of flowers, and…another would become some sort of silk handkerchief. I remember helping him catch a pigeon for one of his acts, and it defecated all over the front room.”

John fell back and covered his face in hilarity, “Oh no! God—did that really happen? Or are you making this all up?”

“Oh, it’s all true,” Sherlock told him with a grin. “He’s very good at card tricks to this day. In fact, he taught me a few things when we were younger…”

John arched an eyebrow and Sherlock gave him a good-humoured expression and then reached for his ear, bringing back a custard cream biscuit with a crinkle of his eyes. John looked at it and then at Sherlock before dissolving into giggles again, taking the biscuit from Sherlock as he joined him, the file on his lap forgotten, as well as the aches and pains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less angst at the end there, thought the story could do with it.
> 
> Also, don't worry, Sherlock will start showing properly soon. * I realise it might seem weird that he hasn't shown yet and he's carrying twins, but trust me, I have done a heap of research and I've found a few women who don't show properly until week 13 and onwards. Babies can be all sizes too, sometimes you can have a big baby and look like you're having twins with a large bump, or you could have a small baby and not have much of a bump at all. Also, weight plays a vital role and with Sherlock being sick a lot of the time, he hasn't put on that much weight; in addition John works, so he can't forever be around to keep an eye on Sherlock, and Sherlock being Sherlock could forget to eat or even not feel like eating. And Sherlock is fit and trim, and I reckon such things would affect the pregnancy.
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another chapter? So soon? Gosh!
> 
> Yes! I was so wrapped up that I wrote this next chapter out quite quickly--and by quickly I mean it took me most of the day and into the next (it's 3:58am).  
> Sorry in advance if there are any spelling errors. I wanted to get this out quick to say thank you to all those that continue to leave comments and feedback to me whenever I ask it, it really helps me out a lot and I wouldn't be writing more, nor as often, if I didn't have some responses. I seem to slow to a crawl when I don't get much of a response from something.
> 
> There's more angst type stuff in this, I think, so, I'm sorry about that!  
> Sherlock's also being an idiot again in this bit, the silly monkey. Sherlock being Sherlock is always fun to write though, even if he is an arse.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock winced when he sat up from his bed and frowned, rubbing a hand across his pelvis and stomach, and then around to his aching back, as he yawned and stretched, determined not to pay any attention to the sensation of the expanded uterus in case he was overly panicked by it and made himself sicker than he already felt. Despite his best efforts, however, his heart picked up and he swallowed roughly; not only could he feel more of a difference within himself but as he glanced down and lifted his top, he was finally able to see a difference, a difference that stole his breath and propelled him to his feet. Once Sherlock was standing the bump was not as defined and he stared, wondering if it had just been the folds of his stomach, and walked into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror, arching up on his toes to fully see the length of his torso and turning aside. His stomach was indeed distended several inches in a slight but smooth curve below his navel, and when he turned to the front he remarked the way his stomach muscles were softened above, as well as what looked to be the line of the womb when he tried to suck his stomach in. It must have happened sometime during the last week up until that moment without Sherlock’s notice, which made sense given how distracted he had been with the files left by Mycroft; or had it happened even before that? Sherlock scowled and berated himself for not paying enough attention, then wondered why he would even want to pay attention, and paced in the bathroom, biting at the corner of his thumb, and then pausing his movements only to breath through a strong bout of nausea.

With it being so early in the morning, John wasn’t awake, and Sherlock was thankful for it as he made his way through the flat, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, before he doubled back to his bedroom with a glower and a frustrated sigh, and pulled out a roll of measuring tape from his wardrobe. He presumed that he had missed the growth because he had been resolutely not looking at his body for a while, only catching glimpses of it whenever John examined him or when he got dressed or showered; Sherlock had been trying to ignore the fact that he was pregnant, noticing that the more he focused and worried over it, the more rattled he felt and the more sick he was in response, and so he had tried to carry on working and pushed aside or locked away any of the persistent memories, qualms and reactions linked to the pregnancy; nevertheless, ultimately he was always reminded, either by John or his own body as he rushed for the toilet to be sick or to continuously empty his bladder. He was also always reminded via extremely vivid dreams, that consisted mainly of reliving being kicked in the stomach, sometimes savagely so; or of nightmares in which he was carrying deformed and twisted versions of babies that looked monstrous and which squirmed and pushed the skin of his stomach outwards grotesquely.

Sherlock took a breath, rolled up his top and pulled the tape around his waist, measuring the circumference, stopping only once to shake out the tremor from his fingers. He measured himself twice, and then once more, and then sat down on his bed, staring at the measurement with a lump in his throat and tingle of trepidation up his spine, which seemed to settle in his stomach in a burst of flutters that Sherlock became instantly apprehensive of. Pushing his hand to his stomach he tried to calm himself and blanked his mind, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a slump of his shoulders and a roll of his neck. The faint fluttering paused but started up again when Sherlock peeked down with one eye and pressed his fingers in.

Sherlock huffed with a twist of his mouth and pushed again, then again, tilting his head with sudden attention as he prodded and poked at what was obviously his womb, the unborn within reacting almost instantly to his touch.

“You okay?” John whispered sleepily, having had walked to Sherlock’s open bedroom door in curiosity. “You in pain?”

The flutters seemed to redouble in strength at John’s voice and Sherlock looked up sharply, pushing his top back down, “No.”

John’s glazed and tired eyes sharpened as he frowned, “You sure?”

Sherlock nodded briskly and then gathered up the tape awkwardly, “Yes.”

“Okay,” John muttered, his gaze narrowing in concern though he shrugged casually. “I’ll be getting your urine test back today, from Mike. I might give you a low dose of aspirin each day from now onwards, to reduce risk of high blood pressure and pre-eclampsia. And if you have extreme itching without a rash at any time, let me know, it might be obstetric cholestasis and I’d like to…deal with it as soon as possible—Jesus, sorry, I shouldn’t drop all this on you but…I just want to--”

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupted, not looking John in the face anymore. 

John sighed, “Right. Okay. If you want to know what any of what I just said means, just…let me know and I’ll explain it better later. My brain doesn’t work so well in the mornings.”

Sherlock glanced up when John shuffled away, and then dropped his head in his hands as he breathed through yet another bout of queasiness, ruffling his hair and grimacing when the fluttering started up once more. The sensation made Sherlock flush with a barrage of sentiment that caused his vision to blur as tears sprang to his eyes and then clung to his eyelashes annoyingly; up until that point, Sherlock had only been presented with the lives inside him via the ultrasound machine, with the sound of heartbeats and the odd shapes of the developing foetuses, but he had not felt them, had not experienced anything as incredibly tangible of their existence as the flurries of what could only be movement, and energetic movement at that. His reaction was almost as unbearable as when he had seen them at eleven weeks, looking fully formed and wriggling in black and white, and emotion had squeezed at his heart and surged through him so powerfully that he had lost all control of his body; Sherlock had snapped out of it as quickly as he could and, before John could comment on his lack of control over his emotions, he had all but sprinted to the bathroom where he later threw up and paced and cried until he was so exhausted and drained that he felt almost oddly hollow. 

“Oh,” John suddenly said, appearing again at Sherlock’s doorway, “before I forget, I’d like to do a nuchal translucency scan on you, possibly today if that’s all right? It’s to…to check for Down’s syndrome, to measure the fold of skin at the base of the babies’ necks. Okay?”

Sherlock mussed his hair again, avoiding eye contact, “And if they do have it?”

“…We’ll discuss--”

“Probably best to do an abortion then, yes?” Sherlock asked curtly.

John was quiet a long moment, his anger easily registering in the silence, “There are tests to make doubly sure. A CVS test for example, this would be best with how far along you are, as you can have this done from 10-13 weeks…”

“What happens during that?” Sherlock murmured, still unable to look John in the eyes.

“First you’ll have an ultrasound,” John started with a deep breath. “The…the objective of the CVS test it to acquire a tissue sample from the placenta, and this is either withdrawn from the cervix or the abdomen, and a… technician, an assistant, uses the ultrasound to sort of guide the process along. As you are—well, because going in through the cervix is a no-go, it’ll have to be through your abdomen, which will be numbed first with anaesthetic, of course, and then a long needle is inserted through your skin, muscle and uterine wall to remove the sample…”

Sherlock peeked over at John after a second, “And if it comes back that there is a…problem?”

John’s face crumpled and he shook his head, resting a forearm on Sherlock’s doorframe, “I don’t know, Sherlock, we’d have to discuss it…some women choose to terminate after finding out, whilst others choose to continue, it would be the same for us.”

“My gums bleed,” Sherlock said to change the subject. “Is that normal?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” John told him with a sympathetic smile. “Try to brush and floss carefully, and if you’re worried I can get you something that could help.” 

Sherlock smiled in return and inclined his head, waving John away when he lingered at the door awkwardly. Instead of leaving, John walked further into the room and moved to stand before Sherlock expectantly, the scent of him automatically calming Sherlock along with the look of his bed mussed hair and the crease on his face where his pillow had crumpled up against him during sleep.

“What’s the measuring tape for?” John asked lowly, posture composed and passive, hands flexing by his sides. 

Sherlock looked at his hands and then leaned back and rucked up his top again wordlessly, watching out of the corner of his eyes as John crouched with a twitching smile and reached out, hesitating inches from touching Sherlock’s skin. Grabbing his wrist, Sherlock shot John a look of exasperation and pushed his hand to his exposed middle, feeling uncomfortable and oddly diffident but unwilling to forbid John permission to touch what he’s already continually touched before.

John’s laugh was a short puff of breath and Sherlock turned his head to look at the strange shift of expressions over his face, “…This is so weird. I mean, sure, I know you’re…you know, but to actually see and feel that it’s true is just…another thing altogether, don’t you think? What does it feel like? Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Sherlock scowled with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sorry. Sorry, but, I just…” John muttered, trailing off into silence as he cupped and pressed Sherlock’s stomach in overwhelming inquisitiveness. The fluttering began again and Sherlock clenched his jaw, screwing his eyes shut. 

He wasn’t ready, wasn’t ready for any of it, that was what most of the panicking was, it must be. Sherlock felt like what he supposed a young girl would feel after finding out that she was pregnant at such an age and point in her life that she had no idea how to handle the situation. He didn’t know what to do, what to feel, what he should feel, what he should do; even after so much time had gone by, after continuing with the pregnancy. Was he really still going along with it all for John’s sake, because they were a part of John? Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of destroying them, could hardly breathe whenever he thought back to almost terminating them at the start, to almost losing them from a kick to the stomach; couldn’t get rid of the look on John’s face throughout it all from his mind, couldn’t shut his ears from the words John had uttered and continued to utter.

There was a new room in his mind palace, a room he couldn’t stand to open; a room he didn’t want to open. It housed everything related to his mistake, his failure, his nightmare, and Sherlock hated the very sight of it but could do nothing to get rid of it. He heard faint crying from it, distorted and evil and wrong, seeping from the crack below the closed door with tendrils of vomit, ultrasound transmission gel, and dark blood.

Sherlock flinched and opened his eyes again, fighting back the need to tremble and dry heave with an immense restraint that he was getting better and better at holding, happy to note that John was too distracted to notice his distress. 

“Am I meant to…” Sherlock started, taking a breath and forcing himself to look at John who had turned his head up in sudden unease. “…feel movement at this stage?”

John blinked owlishly, “What?”

“You heard me.”

John licked his lips and glanced down at his hand still on Sherlock’s stomach, “You feel…?”

“Movement. Yes,” Sherlock said curtly, getting frustrated with John exceedingly quickly, more so than usual because of his own bubbling apprehension. 

“Some do,” John mumbled. “Some women say they feel movement as early as ten weeks—you’re sure you feel something?”

“Quite sure.”

“It’s not just…gas or…something?” John asked inanely, still not removing his hand.

Sherlock glared at him in answer and then pulled the tape out, pointing to his measurement, “I assume you want to make note of it in your little blue notebook.”

“Yeah…yeah, right,” John said quietly, staring at the tape for longer than was needed. 

“Move,” Sherlock demanded when John made no effort to get up and leave. “I need the loo, quite desperately, so unless you want me to--”

John flew to his feet, agitatedly scratched the back of his head, rubbed his face, and then nodded, “Right. Sorry. You go and…do that. I’m going to go…do…something else…”

Sherlock noticed the paling of his face and slowly got to his feet cautiously, “John?”

“Hm? Yeah?” John asked, seeming distracted and then overly panicked and emotional. “I’m fine, Sherlock. I just—we’ll talk more about that scan I mentioned later, yeah?”

Before Sherlock could reply, John tripped out of the bedroom and left him alone with the crumpled tape in his hand and the spell of fluttering vanishing into nothing. 

***

Twelve weeks and two days was scribbled down in the notebook that John had apparently left out on the desk in the sitting room before he had rushed off to meet Mike, Sherlock’s measurement underline below it. Sherlock looked at it in passing and filled a glass of water, drinking it all in a few gulps and then refilling it to drink again, staring into the middle distance as he replenished it one more time to chase away the horrid attack of dehydration caused by the sudden rush of heat flushes only moments ago. He turned afterwards and pulled a bowl from a cupboard, packed it with cereal, poured milk over it, and grabbed a spoon; moving almost mechanically and vacantly to place them down on the kitchen table before he fetched another file from Mycroft, and slapped it down beside his bowl. 

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair, and glanced at the folder once he had opened it one handed, running his gaze over the first document with an uninterested arch of his brow and a sigh. Mycroft had indeed come through with what Sherlock had wanted, but some of the things that he had provided were so hideously simple that Sherlock was sure Mycroft had slipped them in on purpose, just to annoy him. 

The ultrasound machine had been some sort of dig at Sherlock, at his stupidity, at not going to Mycroft at the first given opportunity so he could have offered his services and got him and John whatever they had wanted; and when Sherlock had unpacked it angrily, the note that Mycroft had neatly tucked between the keys of the keypad had only infuriated Sherlock more, and he had ripped it up into tiny pieces and thrown it out the window in a scatter of white, crumpled paper confetti. 

The heap of ring binders were better appreciated, however, and Sherlock had felt his anger deflate once he’d skimmed through the first few and read the entirety of the first file with interest. It had been centred on an unsolved gruesome murder about circus performers and as Sherlock had worked through it, he had grabbed nearby fruit and had juggled them, first for entertainment and then for distraction as he suddenly became overcome with sickness and heat, sweating hugely once the flush had passed. 

The cases were all mostly the same; good enough to keep Sherlock’s attention but not hugely difficult to require a run around London or the need to see the evidence first hand.

“It was the father-in-law,” Sherlock mumbled around his fourth spoonful of cereal, “Obvious.”

His stomach fluttered in response, almost instantly, and Sherlock paused mid-chew, glancing down and away with a deep frown, stubbornly trying to snub it, and the connecting feelings, as he turned to read the second form roughly, leaning heavily against the edge of the table at the ache of emotion in his chest. When he came across something stating that the father-in-law was later found dead yet the deaths continued, Sherlock huffed and leaned closer in unexpected concentration, stiffening when the fluttering started up again, as if it was criticising him smugly.

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered aloud, not exactly knowing why and pushing an insane thought aside as he continued to eat and read through the rest of the file, admiring the crime scene photos with a tilt of his head and a curve of his mouth. “Hm. Clever.”

After a few moments his cereal was left, uneaten and soggy as he was suddenly and deeply enthralled, and he stood up to pace the length of the living room, then walked in a tight circle, before jumping on the settee to sit cross-legged with a wide and curling grin, hunching over the folder as if it were a thrilling novel. The case was just what Sherlock had been hoping and wishing for, it preoccupied him almost fully from his condition, pulled him in and changed him, altered him, reset him to how he used to be, and Sherlock clutched at it frantically, digging his fingers into the faintly yielding folder cover. He savoured the sudden thrill, the rush that came with a good crime, a good puzzle to solve, and whined for more like the addict he was.

It seemed that Mycroft had overlooked the current case that Sherlock had hold of, hadn’t seen the alluring tug of the mystery nor the piling of facts and theories that gathered before Sherlock’s eyes the further he read, the more he took on board. It wasn’t out-dated, had hardly gone cold, and Sherlock traced and tracked the buildings in the background of the photos, easily working around the ones that had been purposely blacked out, and bringing up a mind map of London with a wicked smirk, drawing up a layout, connecting the dots, and devising a plan of action. 

It was barely twenty minutes later when he laughed loudly in delight and launched himself across the room to the desk, stealing John’s pen to write down a few things in the folder itself, circling something in one of the photos and underling several words and phrases in the last few documents, linking them with hard and straight lines and dark arrows of emphasis. Sherlock flipped back to the photos of the witnesses and circled one of them, then another one, drawing a line between them and writing along it with a cock of his head, a shudder of excitement and an exclamation of self-satisfaction. He sent a text to Mycroft and dashed to his bedroom, getting dressed quickly, almost numb to the twinge of discomfort as he tightened his belt sharply and bent to slip on his shoes. Swinging on his coat and flicking up the collar, he checked the weather and traffic with a few deft movements of his fingers and threw open the door. 

The fluttering started up as soon as he stepped over the threshold from the sitting room to the landing and Sherlock’s ecstatic expression faltered. He stepped back, fisted his hands, shifted his weight, and slowly looked over his shoulder, and then down at the folder still clutched in his hands in deliberation. The thought of John arriving back to find Sherlock missing sprang up and lodged itself behind Sherlock’s eyes and he blinked rapidly, frowning with a deep grimace at the resulting clench of his gut and wave of queasiness.

His feelings towards his friend shifted in and out of focus as he fought with himself. Sherlock went over all the details again, opened and closed the folder, paced from the door to the window and back, and gripped a handful of his hair. He had everything figured out. He needed it. He wanted it. He couldn’t do without it.

Walking to John’s bedroom, almost on impulse, Sherlock looked around and then dug through his drawer, pulled out his firearm, loaded it with a practiced hand, clicked on the safety and pocketed it. He paused on his way back out and glanced back; John’s bed was neatly made, the corners pulled taut, and the pillows plumped and ordered, and lying on the bedside was one of the ultrasound photos, dog-eared and crumpled from being constantly handled and touched. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, his fingers twitching, and then strolled away, moving back to the living room area to pace again, spinning between the door and his chair, pressing at his temples and dragging a hand repeatedly through his hair.

It was almost a charade, an act for the dead eyes of the skull on the mantelpiece, a fixed game that he was playing with no one but himself. 

Growling he glanced back and forth at nothing hysterically, catching sight of his appearance in the mirror briefly before he rubbed his mouth, eyes, and tugged on his coat, until, eventually blanking his expression with finality and stalking over to the desk, picking up the scattered pen again and writing a message down in John’s notebook. Sherlock underlined it and then threw the pen across the room with a loud clattering as he turned and all but sprinted out of the flat without a backwards glance.

The responding text from Mycroft arrived just as Sherlock was signalling a taxi, and he glanced at it, saw the troubled warning knowingly, and turned his phone off in reply, getting into the cab as it pulled up to the curb without a glance back at a frowning, confused Mrs Hudson hovering in the doorway after he had neglected to shut the door properly behind him in his haste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I should list and link to medical stuff that I mention in the story, let me know, and I'll leave a little sort of bibliography of medical mumbo-jumbo in the notes!
> 
> And although I have already sort of decided on the sex of the twins, what do you lovelies want? I might change my mind...maybe.
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...not much baby related stuff in this, just John finding out and then going after Sherlock.
> 
> I have no clue what I was thinking about the case Sherlock liked so much, I didn't give it much thought to be honest, because that would mean more planning and I already plan so much for this story haha! Anyways, this chapter is more centred on showing Sherlock being Sherlock and John going off to save him. Again.
> 
> Any spelling mistakes or anything, is because I'm exhausted.
> 
> Enjoy!

By the time John had pulled himself together after talking to Sherlock that morning, he was running late for his meeting with Mike, and after forcing down the rest of his tea, he had rushed out of the flat with a low muttered curse, throwing his pen down on the desk at the last moment after doubling back to write down Sherlock’s measurement with a quick slight of hand.

He didn’t want to think about it again, not at that time, and forced the pang of panic and excitement from his head, throwing an arm out for a taxi as he rushed down the street.

When he finally arrived, Mike greeted him with an expression that John instantly wanted to smack off his face but he instead smiled in response and curled his fingers behind his back until his knuckles were white with strain. Mike led John into one of the nearby empty labs to talk to him in private and brought out the results on paper, handing them over as he explained them at length needlessly, adding in his own medical opinions and concerns on the pregnancy again, even though everything was fine and John knew exactly where Mike stood about the entire situation. John bit down on the inside of his cheek and nodded, listening anyhow with steadfast resolve as Mike brought up abortion and then adoption again, as well as a hundred plus complications that could happen during and after pregnancy, both for Sherlock, the unborn, and John and Sherlock’s relationship. John took it all with a stiff upper lip and an unreadable expression, until, that was, Mike then voiced his interest on a scientific level, wishing and wanting to see Sherlock in person and to perform some small tests to better understand how and what was going on inside his body; John snapped his eyes up and glared until Mike rattled off into awkward silence, looking sheepish and embarrassed and guilty. John could understand the interest, of course he could, but Sherlock was not some test subject, some patient, he was John’s best friend, possibly the greatest best friend he’d had to date, even with his moods and somewhat antisocial behaviour and interactions.

Mike, of course, was also a friend, one of John’s very good friends, and John had nothing against the man, in fact he really quite liked him, but he was overly protective of Sherlock anyway, and hearing Mike basically ask to experiment on Sherlock made John’s blood boil. Mike meant well, John knew that, he just wanted to make sure everything was all right, that John and Sherlock could cope; he hadn’t been forced to help them out when Sherlock would inevitably need surgery and John had been forced to ask and plead for assistance, but he had, and had put a lot on the line to make sure that everything would and could go well and in secret. John knew he still had to discuss it all with Mike, as well as Sherlock, but he still had time for all that; and he really needed to wait until Sherlock was less likely to throw a fit and break down, seeing how Sherlock was being overemotional and overcome with hormones a lot of the time. Distraught was probably the meekest way to describe Sherlock.

Seeing him out, Mike patted John on the back, and John pushed away his earlier anger and hugged Mike briefly, lifting the results in thanks and stepping from Barts relieved and overall happy with the outcome. Checking the time he turned and made his way towards the road, striding along near the edge of the street.

At first John didn’t notice the ominous black car waiting for him against the curb, being so absorbed in Sherlock’s results in his hand, but as he walked along the pavement with a smile the car door opened out in his path and halted his progress uncouthly. John scowled and turned with a curse on the tip of his tongue and anger flushing his body again, but it vanished rapidly, replaced by a surge of icy dread at the sight of Mycroft whom peered at him tersely from the confines of the luxurious seats within, a crease between his brows and his mouth tightly twitching. 

“Get in the car, John,” Mycroft said, voice smooth, calm and neutral, despite the look of apprehension in his eyes.

John’s heart clenched painfully at his words and he took a deep and shaky breath, “What’s he done?”

“In the car,” Mycroft repeated, and leaned back out of sight, hands folded elegantly on his lap.

It took a moment for John’s limbs to regain feeling again and move, and he shifted his weight, glancing down at the results now crumpled in his fisted hands before he stuffed them in his pocket and climbed into the seat next to Mycroft, inhaling the scent of leather and Mycroft’s cologne as he shut the door behind him.

Mycroft started speaking as soon as the car moved, and John stared at him wordlessly and listened whilst he explained everything to John in a soothing tone that did nothing to calm the harsh beating of his heart; it was so loud that it almost drowned out some of what Mycroft was saying, and John lowered his gaze to Mycroft’s mouth, watching his lips form words that made his vision throb as emotion grazed and itched up his throat. Words like “dangerous” and “insane” and “sadistic”. According to Mycroft, he had not foreseen that one of the cases he had given Sherlock would enact such interest and Sherlock had been so captivated, so entranced, that he had taken John’s gun, the folder of information, and gone out after the one responsible for the murder and deaths of more than nine people. Sherlock had added insult to injury by then turning off his mobile and taking routes he knew Mycroft’s all seeing eyes could not track him, supposedly using his homeless network to sneak across London unnoticed.

Fortunately, Mycroft had a backup copy of the case in question and opened it gently, passing it to John as he slowly divulged and deduced where Sherlock might be heading, pointing out a few faces of the witnesses with importance and then tracing the shadows and silhouettes of significant buildings in the crime scene photos. John’s focus wavered when he saw the dead bodies just beneath Mycroft’s finger, the dark smears of congealing blood and starched, pale, lifeless faces and glassy eyes, making his stomach turn; he threw the folder back at Mycroft angrily, screwing his eyes shut and flexing his hands, glaring down at his knees.

What was Sherlock thinking? Why had the idiot gone off on his own? Had he had enough to eat, to drink? John thought about the way Sherlock had looked in the dim light of his bedroom that morning, the curtains having still been closed, stopping the morning light from entering. He thought about Sherlock’s curving stomach, of the fluttering of movement that Sherlock told him he had felt, and of the way Sherlock had peered at him when John had stumbled from the room, overcome with a mixture of emotions so strong that he could barely think.

Was Sherlock doing it on purpose, was he putting himself in danger and at risk because he wanted to get hurt? Clenching his jaw, John scrunched his eyes tighter closed, so tight that dots burst in his vision. His hand twitched for his mobile automatically, however he stilled it and took a deep but ragged breath through his nose, trying to organise his thoughts, sieving through piles and piles of thoughts and emotions as quickly as he could to try and alleviate the pain in his chest and head. One thought turned out to be a memory, and he paused on it, remembering the way Sherlock had looked and reacted when he had been kicked in the stomach on the earlier case. Surely he wasn’t doing it on purpose, not when he had responded like he had? So why had he gone off, again, alone, again, and not thought for John’s feelings on the matter? John wasn’t angry because he could end up losing the unborn babies, John was angry because Sherlock could end up being seriously injured or dead.

The thought of losing Sherlock was something that had been the trigger behind his choice and decision to kill the cabbie; John would kill for the man, literally. He thought again about the babies, thinking back to the ultrasound images and the wriggling, squirming masses that were his children, and the thought only added fuel to the flame, only made John even more resolute to do anything to keep his friend, his family, safe. 

Somehow, for some reason, something clicked in John’s mind unexpectedly and he jerked his head up and wrenched the folder back to him, leafing through it roughly and prodding his finger into several of the outlined buildings, rehearing what Mycroft had said earlier and seeing the connecting lines adding up in his mind. A vision of Sherlock, grinning and tilting his head, made John do the same as he turned back to the images of the witnesses, and he squinted and then looked sharply up at Mycroft, whom smiled with interest and inclined his head with an arch of his brows, faintly impressed.

Mycroft had told him what he thought Sherlock had seen, had worked out, and John was telling Mycroft, that he was somewhat correct, even without opening his mouth. John seemed to remember something from before, of noticing something about the photos instinctively, without fully knowing what it was that he had seen; John supposed it was back when he’d looked through a few of the folders after first finding the stack of them near the ultrasound machine, he must have scanned the contents of the one in his hand, must have seen but not have had observed. John felt his mouth quirk and looked back at the folder in his hands. Sherlock knew what he was doing, as he mostly always knew; and John knew that normally, Sherlock could handle himself fine, more than fine, excellently, except, of course, when he was being his own version of an idiot; however, Sherlock was not himself, not completely, he was compromised and that made him vulnerable, gave him a weak spot that he wouldn’t have had before. John knew that if the people Sherlock had gone to intercept and face had any idea of what Sherlock was carrying with him; they’d use it as an advantage without hesitation. 

“I want a gun,” John told Mycroft with determination, and the serene buzz that came with conflict entering his veins warmed his limbs.

Mycroft nodded, as if he had been expecting such a response, and pulled up a case from between his feet, unclipping it and swivelling it towards John with a sophisticated twist of his wrist, “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” John breathed, looking at Mycroft with a narrowed gaze. “Three things; firstly, you’re going to look more closely before you hand your crazy, idiot, younger brother anything else in the future, because I sure as hell can’t stop him from wanting to occupy his mind; in fact, I completely understand why he needs it, I’m all for it, but what I’m not all for is him risking his life doing stupidly reckless things without my knowledge! Secondly, don’t buy us anymore pathetically expensive machinery or anything else for that matter, it’s not that I’m not grateful, but it’s a tad rude and arrogant of you to think we can’t get what we need on our own, in our own way and on our own time; we do own money, you know, we can fend for ourselves, we’re two grown adults. And thirdly, when I see him, you better be on hand to hold me back, because I’m going to punch the git in the face!”

Mycroft tucked his chin down with a flickering of a smile and watched John handle the gun silently for a second before he took a breath, “How compromised is he? His…condition, surely it would slow him down somewhat--?”

“Shut up,” John grunted with a glower, unable and not wanting to think about such things again, not without compromising himself in the process; and so he loaded the gun loudly in prominence and looked down once more at the folder in his lap. “Just get me to him.”

***

John sneaked up to the grimy window of an abandoned warehouse and peered through a jagged hole in the glass to see Sherlock standing astride two people whom both had both guns trained on him; one was a woman and the other was a man, and even though they were slightly different from their photos in the folder, and had since changed their hair colour as well as its style, wearing clothes that had seemingly let them hide in plain sight, John recognised them instantly for who they were and tightened his grip on his firearm, crouching to the floor to move around at a better angle. Sherlock was aiming John’s gun at them, his arm outstretched and trembling slightly, and his face flushed and gleaming with sweat. He was talking to them lowly, saying something that John couldn’t quite hear, and he stared at Sherlock’s mouth as he tried to work it out, watching Sherlock’s lips work slowly, whilst Sherlock’s eyes stayed locked on the woman, his other hand waving the case file at her for emphasis.

As John crept closer he noticed a body a few yards away and paused, waiting for movement; when none came, John pressed his lips together tightly and continued on. The woman was getting irate with what Sherlock was saying and was motioning to the man beside her with her elbow sharply, a signal that made Sherlock take a small step backwards. From John’s position he could see that Sherlock was paling but didn’t know if it was because of what he was experiencing with the pregnancy or because he was unnerved by the way the situation was going. John turned around and signalled for Mycroft’s men to circle around, making sure they all got into position before John, himself, moved closer still, his feet almost inaudible along the ground, sidestepping broken glass, pieces of rusted metal, and at one point, a dead pigeon. 

“She’s using you,” Sherlock was saying as John slipped behind the woman, singling her out as the biggest threat. “She’s been using you from the start—”

“Shut up!” The man shouted, obviously hysterical. “You don’t know nothing!”

“Then I must know something,” Sherlock muttered conceitedly with a shrug, tightening his hold on John’s gun when the man frowned and looked between Sherlock and the woman in confusion. “Look, what do you think will happen once the last remaining targets on her little list are dead? Think you and her will just ride off into the sunset together? Please, she doesn’t need you. She’ll kill you, just like she did the rest of them.”

“No!” The man almost screamed.

John tensed and shot a glare over at Sherlock in annoyance, finding Sherlock still looking pale and trembling, his eyes glazing and then sharpening every so often. John frowned in concern and adjusted in his crouch anxiously when it looked as if Sherlock was going to be sick, but all he did was dry heave silently, blinking rapidly and inhaling deeply.

“She loves me! And I love her!” The man continued to shriek. 

“Oh, right, of course. That sibling love,” Sherlock nodded, as if conceding to the point condescendingly. 

The man was quiet a moment and shuffled with a furrow in his brow, “What? No! What you talking ‘bout? I mean real love! You know, romantic love!”

Sherlock pretended to give it some thought and glanced at the woman purposely, “Huh. Really? You love him that way, do you?”

“Of course she does!” The man shouted, turning slightly to the woman, who had been as silent and still as a statue for the passed few moments. “Tell him babe!”

“Oh for goodness sake, we’re getting nowhere—she’s your sister, you idiot!” Sherlock exclaimed. “She’s your sister and she’s been playing you, and quite well too if I might add. You really think that she loves you? Think she didn’t say that to her mother? To her father, her uncle, her aunt, her sisters, or her cousins? To her father-in-law? To her own husband? Before she murdered them all? To her, you’re no different, you’re just another obstacle in her way, another family member to be eradicated—!”

The woman moved suddenly and shot the man in the head before he could do more than frown in outrage, and John flinched automatically, signalling back to Mycroft’s men to stay where they were as brain matter splattered the wall and floor thickly. Sherlock straightened out his arm as she turned the gun on him and pressed his lips together when she stepped close enough that their hands that were holding their weapons almost touched, and John zeroed in on the fact that her hand was gloved.

“He was an idiot,” the woman agreed with a soft voice once the echoing blast from the shot had dissipated. “But oh so fun to play with.”

“That inheritance money must really be worth it,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Oh it is,” she smirked. 

“I assume you’re going to frame it on—” 

“My brother, yes,” she nodded, laughing and motioning to the first body, the one John had bypassed. “Well, one of them, at least.”

John softly changed his position and stood up behind what looked to be a file cabinet. He trained his gun on her and fingered the trigger, slowing his breathing as he waited for the right moment to strike. Mycroft’s men were well hidden, and if worst came to worst and she made a run for it, John had no doubt that they’d be able to stop her. There weren’t many of them, just a handful, but there was only one of her. 

John knew it might be seen as odd for him not to want to stop her straight away, but she was clearly unhinged, and John feared that if he moved out to take her at that moment, that she might kill Sherlock in reaction, or take him hostage at the very least. Sherlock didn’t know that John was there, that he was watching, for all Sherlock knew, he was on his own with a crazed armed gunwoman that wouldn’t think twice before shooting him in the head. People like her couldn’t be spooked, and if he played his cards right, if he waited, he could possibly get her by surprise. Sherlock was doing well for keeping her talking and distracted, stalling for time, possibly because he was formulating his own plan, or John hoped he was. The woman was supercilious but ridiculous, and she was enjoying her audience while it lasted, so Sherlock was taking full advantage of that, whilst keeping his voice low and his earlier biting opinions to himself.

The woman sighed, a breath that sounded almost sexual, “I’ve already got it all planned. How I was almost killed by Tommy, my eldest brother, who was the culprit, but was saved by David there, my youngest, who turned up with a gun and shot Tommy six times in the torso before he was sadly shot in the head at point blank range; a the last ditch attempt by Tommy, before he succumbed to his wounds—”

“You really think people will believe that?” Sherlock scoffed.

She smirked again, showing too much teeth, “Yes. You, yourself, know how stupid people can be. Don’t you, Sherlock Holmes?” she purred. “At any rate, I won’t come out of this entirely unharmed…I’ll make it look good, make it real believable, don’t you worry—But, what to do about you. You’ve messed everything up actually, I’m really quite annoyed with you.”

Sherlock looked to be sweating again but John was sure it was to do with a sudden hot flush than to do with what she was saying to him, “Oh, have I? I’m terribly sorry,” he mumbled sarcastically.

“I suppose I’ll have to kill you,” She sighed, tapping Sherlock’s arm with the still warm barrel of her gun. “Say it was Tommy. Say you must have found us just before David came rushing in to help me, and that you were tragically killed as a result at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

Sherlock nodded, “Or,” he muttered before chopping his wrist down on hers abruptly, making her drop the gun to the ground with a grunt. 

She punched Sherlock in the face in the next second, however, and grappled with him, almost kneeing him in the middle and then shoving him back into a wall. The woman was stronger than she looked and she grinned evilly at Sherlock, invading his personal space as they tussled roughly. Sherlock seemed to be struggling somewhat, his face blotchy and his eyes glazing, but he kicked out, successfully knocking her back, and then punched her in the jaw, whipped her in the face with the gun, and shoved her violently to the floor, before swaying and shaking his head. 

John stepped from his place the moment she hit the ground and stormed over, sliding her gun away from her seeking grasp, “Don’t even think about it.” 

She looked up at John with black, soulless eyes and John glared at her, swiftly firing his gun, shooting just shy of her hand when she seemed to twitch for Sherlock, both to get at his weapon and feasibly to use him as a human shield. John signalled for Mycroft’s men, finally, and watched as they rushed in to grab her roughly, hoisting her upwards off her feet and dragging her kicking and struggling across the floor and out the back.

When John looked over, Sherlock beamed wonkily and struggled to straighten his slumping posture, lowering John’s gun and then taking a breath to speak until he saw John’s expression and snapped his jaw shut. John snatched his own gun from Sherlock’s fingers and then gestured sharply for Sherlock to get out of the building, glowering when Sherlock bent down for the dropped folder and then following him outside, pushing on his shoulder when Sherlock turned to protest.

“John—”

“Save it,” John growled, dragging him then by the sleeve and forcing him in beside Mycroft when he opened the car door for them. “Get in.”

“I had it under control,” Sherlock started as he shuffled along the seats, persistently ignoring his older brother, whom stared at him with obvious discontent. “I knew that she—”

“I said,” John cut in with irritation, shooting Sherlock a dark look. “Save it.”

Sherlock scowled down at his shoes and leaned back, snubbing the glass of water Mycroft held out to him until John all but manhandled it into his hand, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers against the glass firmly to stress the importance of drinking it. 

“If you carry on, brother mine, you’ll do yourself a serious injury and endanger your life as well as…others,” Mycroft said softly, watching Sherlock swallow the water deeply. 

“I had it under control,” Sherlock repeated. “I’m fine—everything is fine! I went over the details more than a hundred times before I found them. Everything turned out the way I had foreseen. Not only was she deranged, but she was a creature of habit, everything went exactly how I knew it would.”

“You knew she’d shoot and kill her brother, who just so happened to be her accomplice?” John asked indignantly.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly, “…I knew she’d be planning to.”

“She almost killed you,” John hissed. “If I hadn’t have been there…then what? Were you going to wrestle with her until we arrived? Fight her until she ended up hurting you, until she didn’t miss the next blow to your abdomen?”

“So that’s what this is about?” Sherlock snarled, rounding on John. “I was ready for her, I knew she’d do what she ultimately did, I wasn’t that stupid to not know that we’d end up in some sort of altercation—!”

John gripped the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, “She could have taken you by surprise; it’s not the first time that’s happened, Sherlock! Why do you do this? You know that you’re not in the right frame of mind to go and do all this; that you’re not ready to go back out doing what you used to. It was bad enough before, when you’d blatantly run into trouble, but now you have something other than yourself to consider. You are carrying our children, Sherlock—no, don’t look away, look at me! I don’t care what you think you can do, the fact of that matter is, you can’t do it, end of; you can’t play detective, not when you have others to think about, to look after. Are you really so selfish?” John criticised, pointing at Sherlock with a shaking finger. “If you knew you would have ended up fighting with her…why did you go? Huh? Why? Why risk it? It’s not like before, Sherlock; they aren’t protected and small like they once were. That woman could have really hurt you, today. She could have hit you so hard that you could have had a miscarriage, you could have gone into shock and conceivably bled internally!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, face tight, “That wouldn’t have happened! You would have found me!”

“What if we hadn’t? What if Mycroft had miscalculated or not found the specific location in time to get you to a hospital if you had needed it?” John bellowed. “What then? You are already in high risk of miscarriage as it is, even if you are almost in your second trimester—you are a man, not a woman, as you keep rightly pointing out; anything could happen, anything could go wrong, and I need to be there, Sherlock, I want to be there if anything like that happens! How many more times must I tell you how much you mean to me, how much I’m willing to sacrifice for you?”

Sherlock blinked and jerked away, covering his face with his hands after Mycroft took back the half empty glass, “I know that,” Sherlock said loudly, voice slightly muffled by his palms. “I feel the same about you but…all these “what ifs” mean nothing, John. I had it all figured out! Everything worked out; I felt like myself again, I needed this, John. I knew you’d find me, because I left you a note telling you precisely where I was, and before you start, I couldn’t wait for you, I just couldn’t. I had already waited too long, since by the time I got there, she had already killed one of her brothers, that is on me, that was my fault, that was because I didn’t get there in time to stop her!”

John sat back and rubbed his mouth, “I didn’t see the note. Mycroft came to get me after my meeting with Mike. Or didn’t you foresee that in that big brain of yours? Why did you purposely turn off you phone, Sherlock? Whether I saw the note or not, I would have wanted to contact you, and I couldn’t. You purposely took routes in such a way that Mycroft could not easily follow too, what does that say?”

“That I wanted you, not him,” Sherlock retorted, waving a dismissive hand at Mycroft and almost hitting him in the face in the process. “You can’t expect me to just sit around, leaving my brain to rot in a raging sea of—”

“Then you should have had the abortion!” John snarled. “In fact, you should have it now, today. If everything, including me and my feelings, mean so little to you—”

Sherlock frowned and looked at him sharply with teary eyes, “What?”

“How badly do you want to go back to how things were before you were a complete and total idiot and impregnated yourself?” John asked crossly, lifting his eyebrows and tilting his head in question when Sherlock took too long to answer. “Well? I know this is one hell of a situation that you’ve landed us in, but we are in it, and I am willing and…and happy to stick it out with you; however the choice was and is yours whether you keep the babies or not. I cannot force you to do anything. Clearly. All this could have been sorted without you putting yourself in danger, Sherlock. All of it. All you had to do was tell Mycroft everything, tell him where she was, who she was, what she was probably planning on doing, and then let him deal with it!”

Sherlock ducked his head after a few seconds and went silent, his expression and gaze impassive. John stared at him and then shook his head, sharing a look with Mycroft before turning away towards the car window. He was still furious at Sherlock but most of all he was relieved, relieved that Sherlock was okay, that he wasn’t in as much of a state as John had feared he would be, and so he reached out blindly and clutched at Sherlock’s wrist, feeling his thundering pulse and stroking the fragile, soft skin comfortingly. Sherlock exhaled deeply and took the glass of water back from Mycroft with slow and precise movements that seemed to show his gratitude towards his brother whom rested a light hand on Sherlock’s knee in response.

All three of them sat in silence for the rest of the car journey with only the sound of Sherlock drinking and fidgeting between them. John clung to Sherlock’s wrist as Mycroft grounded Sherlock by his knee, calming him with a tap of an index finger when Sherlock’s breathing seemed to go a little ragged. Emotion clogged John’s throat as he thought about the unborn babies after trying hard not to since first getting into Mycroft’s car, and he was suddenly more determined to do what he had planned before he’d left to see Mike, and do a scan for Down’s syndrome, as well as a scan to know their genders, and to make sure all was well after Sherlock’s little stunt. 

Once the car finally pulled up in front of the flat, John got out first and looked back as Sherlock lifted his eyes and watched John slip up to the front door without a word, staying a moment longer to listen to something Mycroft murmured to him before he handed over the folder and trailed in after John, smiling wonkily at Mrs Hudson but ignoring her imploring expression and her soft touch on his arm.

“Your room,” John told him strictly. “Now.” 

Sherlock hung up his coat slowly, toed off his shoes, and then shuffled into his bedroom with a loud sigh, unbuttoning his shirt as John followed him through with his hands in his pockets. 

The nuchal translucency scan, thankfully, turned out successful, with both the babies looking healthy and still energetically wriggling, and neither one of them with Down’s, something that made the tense muscles in John’s shoulders relax a fraction. The genders, however, took John a little longer to try and work out and he huffed and tilted his head, pressing and angling and repositioning the probe on Sherlock’s stomach for so long that Sherlock seemed to drift off into his mind with his hands resting on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The switch from being alert and angry and fearful for Sherlock, to being overwhelmed with emotion and happiness at seeing the babies were safe and extremely vigorous, was so quick and so abrupt that John almost felt like the former had only been a dream, a nightmare. Twin A was still as lively as before, throwing what looked like fisted hands into the air and shifting position with an arc of a small body, and Twin B was jerking and squirming slowly every so often.

John took a moment to admire them each, following the line of their spines and the bend of their limbs, and then blinked widely when he noticed something which he first found on Twin B and then Twin A. 

“Boys,” John exclaimed in a huff of breath that jerked Sherlock back into reality.

“What?”

John grinned slowly and turned the monitor, delighted when Sherlock didn’t protest and actually seemed to lean forward with interest, “I think its two boys.”

Sherlock gazed at what John was showing him and then parted his lips with a soft, stunned breath, “Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the twins are two boys! Yay!
> 
> In the next chapter, and possibly others, the mention of adoption shall be touched upon. I will warn you lovely people with each chapter that has it, but I also thought to let you know now. I'm not saying anything will be done, but these two need to have a lot of talks about the future the longer the pregnancy goes on.
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter has some discussion of adoption and contains sad and distressing thoughts concerning the death of children.
> 
> This is a very sad chapter, I almost cried whilst writing it. This chapter also shows you one of the reasons Sherlock might not want the twins. It is full of contradictions and twisted thoughts and feelings, because Sherlock is so overwhelmed and scared and...everything else! It's not a great time for him, in all honesty. He both does and doesn't want what he has, and it's driving him a little mad because of it, as he is unable to really nail things down...if that makes any sense to anyone?
> 
> Anyway, hopefully this shows more of a look into Sherlock's muddled thoughts and might clear a few things up. There are still a lot more reasons why Sherlock acts and says and thinks what he does, but I might not go into all of them and I like to leave some to your imaginations as well.
> 
> I would say enjoy but...this is a sad chapter.
> 
> p.s. I am writing the pregnancy a week at a time (or near enough), let me know if you want me to skip ahead or continue the way I'm going. The next chapter might still be in week thirteen, but I'm not entirely sure, either way, I am still really writing it week by week.

Sherlock prodded his stomach with one and then two fingers, tracing the curve of it with his fingertips and then yawning as he slumped further in his chair with his legs outstretched. One glance at the calendar told Sherlock he was thirteen weeks and four days pregnant and he dropped his head back with a grunt of complaint, unsure if he was annoyed at how quick time was going by or about how slow; according to John, he was meant to be leaving morning sickness behind around the second trimester, but Sherlock had continued to feel and be sick, unable to keep much down and forever nauseous when presented with any strong smells.

However, despite his foul mood, his reckless endangerment, his nightmares, his muddled brain, and continued loss of appetite, things had inevitably changed. The door, for instance, the door to the new and cornered off room in his mind palace, that he hadn’t wanted to open or enter before, looked slightly more polished, more pleasing, more interesting; it no longer seeped and oozed with sick, gel and blood, but glowed with the throbbing light of curiosity, and Sherlock stared at it, hearing the echoes of movement and faint happy squeals within, no longer demonic and frightening like they had been; they now rang out like a chiming of a bell, vibrating the air around him and calling to him. He reached out slowly, brushing his hand against the lock and bolt, and unlocked it, unwaveringly, pulling the door open. It glided on oiled hinges and a blinding light leaked out along the walls and floors, just touching his feet before the door slammed shut again, locking itself with a screech of metal and the scream of a baby.

Sherlock jerked back to the present, out of his head and back in the living room again, and calmed his breathing as he glanced down and then slumped back, tipping his head up.

“You hate me,” he mumbled, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t you?”

John walked in at that moment with a frown, “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock sighed, tugging his top down but not before John caught sight of the growing bump. “I’m hungry, yet I don’t want to eat. How is that possible?”

John’s mouth twisted and then quirked on a grin, “Anything in particular that you’re hungry for?”

“Ice cream,” Sherlock replied, shrugging when John glanced at him. “You asked. Mint Ice cream, in fact—actually, no, chocolate and mint. The mint ice cream with the dark chocolate chips in it.”

“So… Mint chocolate chip ice cream,” John said with amusement.

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought and then threw his head back, “Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, come here!” he shouted his voice filling the room. “Mrs Hudson!”

“She’s gone out,” John muttered with a longsuffering sigh. “Sherlock, don’t shout. I’ll get you the sodding ice cream, but later, and not until after you eat some real food.”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock called louder.

John threw down a dishtowel, “Sherlock! She’s not in—”

“What is it now, dear?” She asked with a click of her tongue as she opened their door and peered in with a frown. “I can’t keep coming up and down these stairs, my hip—”

“Sit down, would you?” Sherlock told her, waving a hand at the sofa and fighting down any sort of clinging emotional response to what he was about to do. “John and I, have something to tell you.”

“Sherlock,” John moved to stand at his side and bent down to whisper at him tersely, “Sherlock, we didn’t discuss this. Surely we need to talk about this first?”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock continued, ignoring John and leaning forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. “This might come as a bit of a shock.”

“Oh,” she gasped, sitting heavily and looking worriedly between them. “What’s happened? I knew something was going on. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed the shouting and the…the sobbing…and the vomiting—oh, that was the worst. But I didn’t interfere, I…I didn’t know what to say and I wasn’t sure...if I’d be welcome. John seemed to be dealing with it and I…I…please forgive me! I should have come up sooner! Mrs Turner lost a friend to cancer, and I…”

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly and then leaned back into his chair again, “It’s not cancer, Mrs Hudson. I wish it were—”

“Sherlock!” John chided with a fierce look on his face. “Don’t you dare say things like that. Do you hear me?”

Mrs Hudson looked startled and peered between them, worrying her necklace with her delicate fingers, and then turning to face John when he eventually let out a puff of breath and sat down beside her. John explained everything in a soft, calming voice, which both annoyed and soothed Sherlock, and made the fluttering in his abdomen more intense. 

Sherlock looked down at his stomach again and tilted his head as he thought about them, wondering if they were really both male; John had said he could check again, but that he had been fairly sure that they were indeed both boys. It had taken Sherlock a moment to respond and react properly, and when he had fully processed what John had said, Sherlock had walked away and locked himself in the bathroom. Things had seemed to be going too quickly for him to completely comprehend and understand and to put it all together in some sort of order, and so he had sat down on the lid of the toilet and stared at nothing, feeling overwhelmed, guilty, despondent, petrified, irritated, and bewildered. John had left him alone for almost an hour before he finally knocked on the door and told Sherlock to get out of the bathroom, leading him through to the kitchen where he had then made him eat and drink. They had talked afterward, or rather, John had talked and Sherlock had listened in tense silence, unwilling to acknowledge the tears on his face. John had berated him for his horrid behaviour, sympathised with him for his situation, and then questioned him on the decision to continue to go through with the pregnancy; something Sherlock had not answered, no matter how many times John had asked him. After a while, John had given up trying to get him to talk, and had stormed off to his room, furiously telling Sherlock that they would have to discuss everything, in depth, at some point, whether he liked it or not.

Over the days that had followed, Sherlock had remained in his bedroom, lying on his back on his bed, and had only moved when John scolded him and brought food and water to his bedside. Nevertheless, things had evened out between them since, and had almost gotten back to normal. Sherlock knew that John hadn’t forgiven him properly, and that he was still waiting for an occasion to ask Sherlock the same questions, but until that time, Sherlock was going to stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the husking future and its coat of doubts, impediments, interrogations and responsibilities. He wanted to concentrate on other things; on the few case folders that John had allowed him to keep and go through; on his website and the amounting messages from people with their feeble, boring, little problems; and finally on a piece of music he had only recently started playing, which had started as a way to apologise to John and had turned into one of his best works in progress to date.

Sherlock knew it was stupid of him to ignore it so, but he still could not fully face the impending, looming, daunting fact that he was pregnant with twins and would eventually have to have them cut out of his ballooned body; unless, of course, he fell back onto his first logical, safe, and right decision, and have them terminated. The thought of it made him physically unwell, more so than the thought of being stuck with two newborn babies, which would very well be taken off him, either by John or by whomever Mycroft would choose to raise his younger brother’s impossible brood. However, Sherlock had doubts on whether Mycroft would actually go through with the adoption process, because he had seen the way Mycroft had looked at him when he had gently kept Sherlock back to lecture him with a face of thunder and a cold and angry tone of voice; Sherlock hadn’t seen Mycroft show much emotion through the years, and to see and hear the purposeful fury and disappointment, had made Sherlock’s stomach turn.

Why was he going through with it all? Why hadn’t he gotten rid of the problem from the start, like he should have done? Was it all because of John, and if it was, or even if it wasn’t, why could he still not face up to his decision and accept it and that which was growing inside him? Why could he easily put their safety aside for his own entertainment? Was he that much of a bad person, was he really that cold and detached, that much of a sociopath?

The fear was understandable, as was the frustration and self-anger, but Sherlock wasn’t sure if he understand all of his thoughts and opinions on the matter; they would switch and twist and disappear and reappear at will, crashing through him in waves of sudden, overpowering emotion, and then seeping from him in pouring rivers that left him hollow and callous. Even at that moment, sitting on his chair with his stomach bulged by the moving bodies of the unborn, Sherlock felt a contradicting hurricane of feelings, issues, moods, and memories, and nearly screamed aloud.

A sharp smack to his arm made him suddenly look up with a frown, blinking back erratic tears, to see Mrs Hudson scowling at him in disappointment. John was looking at him grimly, his hand curled around Mrs Hudson’s wrist, and Sherlock sat up a little straighter.

“You went out to face two murderers whilst you are expecting? Sherlock, why did you do that? You could have hurt yourself!” She was saying, shifting between concerned and motherly, to angry and confused. “You have two little babies to think about now, you can’t go gallivanting off and—”

“I did not…gallivant anywhere,” Sherlock butted in, glaring at John, but then lowering his gaze. “And as I’ve said, multiple times, I had it under control. Being…this way doesn’t necessarily mean that I am incapable of doing anything. I am not disabled. I am not hindered by some horrid disease. I am merely…”

“Pregnant,” John finished for him. 

Sherlock swallowed and shifted his hips, “Yes. As impossible and ludicrous as it sounds, and is, I am pregnant, yes—but I will not let that stop me from being myself, from doing the things that I love, that I need! I can’t just sit around, John! I will go mad, even more so than I already am; what with the hormones and the sensitive nipples and constant trips back and forth to the toilet to either vomit or to release my bladder…then there’s the back pain, the hip pain, the stomach pain…not being able to sleep, or think properly…seeing and hearing everything around me like it has suddenly been magnified somehow, which, by the way, can be awfully nauseating…”

Mrs Hudson, whom Sherlock thought would either faint from shock or take most of the day to come to terms with what John would say to her, was taking it all rather well. She still seemed perplexed, of course, and looked as though she was waiting for either of them to laugh it off as a joke, but she also seemed to have somewhat accepted and adapted to the situation, shaking her head at Sherlock in displeasure. Sherlock must have zoned out for longer than he had intended and had missed the part where Mrs Hudson had gaped in disbelief and shock, asking a bombardment of questions concerning everything and anything, related or unrelated.

“See! You weren’t yourself! You were hampered by the pregnancy, yet you went and did it anyway, ignoring any and all sensible thought…I can’t believe you,” Mrs Hudson went on with a tut. “Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes! You probably worried poor John almost to death with that stunt!”

“Almost,” John agreed with a small nod and a soft breath, catching Sherlock’s eyes. “But…everything worked out, thankfully… so, I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

“Do you know what you’re having?” Mrs Hudson suddenly asked changing the subject so quickly that Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes.

John grinned slowly and nodded again, looking at his hands, “Yeah. We think it’s two boys.”

Mrs Hudson squealed in delight, cupping her hands under her chin, “Oh! How delightful! Two boys for my two boys!” she giggled with a titter.

“Heh, yeah…listen, Mrs Hudson, you can’t tell anyone,” John said, which probably hadn’t been the first time. “Really. This has to stay between us. If the media catch wind of this, well, I’m sure you can imagine the outcome? Not pleasant, at any rate.”

“Yes, yes, of course, dear!” Mrs Hudson nodded. “But…what happens when it’s time to…you know…when it’s time for Sherlock to…have the babies? I suppose he’ll have a C-section? Will you be keeping the babies afterwards? Oh, lord, where would they go? This place isn’t suited for children, far from it! Things will need to change…as well as people.”

Sherlock shot her a narrowed look but didn’t argue and instead peered over at John meekly. She had asked the few questions that John had asked Sherlock, himself, many, many times, without Sherlock giving an answer. 

“Well…” John started uncomfortably.

“And what about baby names? Have you given that any thought at all, it’s best to do it now, while there’s still time,” Mrs Hudson said with a smile that fell at the look on John’s face. “What is it, John? Was it something I said?”

“We…” John whispered, clearing his throat and lifting his chin. “We haven’t fully discussed it but…I think we’re going to give them up once they are born. Give them to a loving home and family, one that can look after them and keep them…keep them safe.”

“…Oh,” she breathed, glancing between them sadly.

“I’ve talked to a friend about it, and he said that he’s going to help us find a nice…a nice place…” John told her. “It’s probably best they don’t know where they came from too. I mean, how would you react to hearing that you came into this world the way that they have? They were…mistakes…at first…and…you know, they don’t have normal parents—they weren’t even conceived normally.”

“Normal is boring,” Sherlock snapped abruptly, surprising John and Mrs Hudson both, as well as himself. “And you…don’t need to have Stamford do anything about that. I told Mycroft. He’s going to do it. Its better he do it. He has the right…connections, as it were.”

John frowned at him and then glowered, “I see. Is this another thing that you thought was too irrelevant to tell me?”

Sherlock shrugged and stared down at his knees, “I…didn’t know how to tell you as we haven’t spoken about it in depth yet—”

“Because you won’t bloody answer me!” John exclaimed. “You won’t discuss it with me. Christ, you, you’ve hardly talked much since the incident! You’ve stayed up in your room, sulking and skulking around!”

“Boys!” Mrs Hudson gasped, waving her hands gently in a calming gesture, turning to face John after a moment. “Too much stress might affect the babies…”

“Sorry…I’m…I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson,” John muttered, blatantly choosing not to apologise to Sherlock. “I just…I need a minute. Excuse me.”

Mrs Hudson watched John leave the room and then turned to stare at Sherlock sternly, “What is the matter with you, Sherlock?”

“…I didn’t want to discuss it with him because I don’t have the answers to his questions,” Sherlock murmured after a few moments of silence. “I…I can’t decide. I can’t decide on anything concerning the pregnancy.”

“Why not? You decided to go through with it—”

Sherlock shook his head, “It was an accident, as John said. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean for it to happen but it…it did because I got…distracted and…then I just couldn’t do much about it…I couldn’t get rid of them…I just couldn’t…” he trailed off and took a few deep breaths, covering his mouth as he fought back a swift surge of queasiness; waving Mrs Hudson back when she moved close in anxiety. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly you’re not, Sherlock,” She whispered, sighing and reaching out to capture one of his hands in hers. “And…I think you know the answers to John’s questions.”

“I really don’t.”

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and squeezed his fingers, “Let me put it another way then—If you didn’t want them, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. Would we?”

Sherlock shrugged and ran his thumb down her index finger slowly, enjoying the sensation of her soft, soft, skin, “If I wanted them, I wouldn’t have gone out and—”  


“You love and care for John, don’t you?” She cut in, cocking her head to catch his eyes. “Hm? You want him to stay, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered lowly.

She nodded and grinned sassily, “Yet you drag the poor man into dangerous situations all the time.”

“That’s different,” Sherlock told her. “He’s a grown man. He doesn’t have to follow me.”

“I think he does. That man would follow you to the ends of the earth and back.”

Sherlock looked away and then sat forwards to be closer to her, inhaling the pleasant smell of her perfume, “Don’t you think they would be better off with someone else? Given my work?”

Mrs Hudson eyed him silently for a long time and then chuckled, shifting her shoulders daintily, “Policemen and detectives are able to have families, Sherlock. Why can’t you?”

“That’s different,” Sherlock sneered. “My work comes to me, here, at my home. Clients sit in this very sitting room.”

“And you’re good with kids,” Mrs Hudson said, as if she had fully overlooked what Sherlock had said. 

“If you’re talking about my homeless network, they aren’t babies, Mrs Hudson, they are young, yes, but not that young,” Sherlock said, rubbing his brow with his free hand and then looking her in the eyes. “Let’s say I…that I…that I do want to keep them… as in, I can’t and won’t terminate them…that doesn’t mean I want them after they are born. They’d be better off somewhere else, with someone else as their parent. John should be in their lives, but me? No. They’d hate me. I can’t have them here, Mrs Hudson. They’d get in the way. They’d ruin everything.”

“Sherlock…”

“My life is dangerous because my life is my work. They don’t fit,” Sherlock said with a shaking voice that he couldn’t seem to steady, feeling sick to the stomach again, and watching as Mrs Hudson pulled her hand back slowly. “I have enemies and I’m bound to have more in the future—they’d never be safe here. Never.”

“I could look after them while you and John are out,” Mrs Hudson offered. “Or, your brother, Mycroft, he could make sure that they are safe, couldn’t he? He could keep an eye on them?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Mycroft can’t be everywhere at once; no matter how much he pretends he can.”

“We could make it work,” Mrs Hudson said, almost pleading. “No one else knows about them, about how they came to be, or who their parents are…they would be safe.”

“For how long?” Sherlock murmured with a scoff, shaking as he actually thought about it, envisioning a future with two children that would need constant love and support and protection. 

Children that could be kidnapped and held for ransom, children that could be easily killed, that could end up face down in a river or dumped in a box on the side of the road. Sherlock had seen it, seen twisted and mangled corpses of children, their lives and innocence taken without thought, without much struggle. Children chucked out on the street with barely enough clothes on their backs to keep them from freezing to death at night. Sherlock knew the types of people out in the world, had met and fought them, had thrown them behind bars, only for them to get out and do it all over again. He flinched bodily as his mind supplied him with a mirage of his faceless unborn children; of turning his back for just a second to find them taken when he looked back; of seeing them holding hands in the playground until a man walked in and carried them off before he could do anything about it; of coming home to find them murdered by someone looking to hurt and ruin him; and of them being knocked over when stupidly running into the road after a football. The phantasms would not leave and he stared at the crumpled, dead, faceless figures of his unborn children, their limbs misshapen and their skin pale and lifeless, blood soaking their clothes and clinging to the gaping wounds to their small bodies.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, it’s okay,” Mrs Hudson was suddenly saying, kneeling by his chair and holding his shoulders, then stroking his hair and face, snapping him out of his thoughts as she leaned in closer.

Sherlock looked up at her and rapidly became aware of his wretched and scratchy sobs, the shaking of his shoulders and the pain in his chest, in his lungs, as he gasped for breath. Mrs Hudson gathered him up against her body and turned slightly when John rushed into the room and dropped beside her, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s head.

“What happened?” John asked in worry as Mrs Hudson pushed Sherlock into her sweet smelling cardigan. 

“I…I don’t know. We were talking and then he just burst into tears,” She said in a shaky voice, her own eyes wet as she shushed Sherlock and petted his hair. “Calm down, love. Calm down, it’s okay.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear, his hand a heavy, comforting weight on the back of his neck. “Calm down, Sherlock. Deep breaths, come on, you’ll make yourself sick and we wouldn’t want that…”

Sherlock clung to Mrs Hudson and reached to grip John’s sleeve, looking at him with a tear drenched vision as he tried to calm himself down, somewhat confused on what had happened, on how he hadn’t noticed his sudden breakdown and panic attack until it had taken complete control over him.

When the images of the faceless, dead unborn children flickered behind his eyes, Sherlock locked them away in the deep recesses of his mind and slumped into Mrs Hudson’s chest limply, feeling cold and empty.

***

Even from his bedroom Sherlock could hear them both talking, and he listened to Mrs Hudson repeat everything Sherlock had said to her in John’s absence in a soft and quiet voice, sniffing every second or two, and probably dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief; John was quiet throughout and only spoke to say goodbye when Mrs Hudson left to return to her own flat. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and moved back down on his bed, turning on his side so his back faced the door just as John stepped into the doorway. 

Sherlock stared at John’s shadow on his bedroom wall and screwed his eyes shut when John stepped inside and sat down, his side pushed to Sherlock’s back, and his hand dropping to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock remained still and waited.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” John murmured rhetorically, stroking down Sherlock’s arm briefly and then pulling away. “Sherlock…I feel the same. I do. I’ve thought about the future too. Now that I know you will and want to go through with the pregnancy completely…I think we should talk to Mycroft about adoption. Yeah? Okay? Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, angry when tears leaked from under his crumpled eyelids. 

John touched him again, leaning over him, and then moved away completely to walk around to the opposite side of the bed and lie down on his side beside Sherlock; and Sherlock peered through his lashes to see him curled up and facing him with sadness etched over his face deeply. John sighed, scooted closer and reached out to hold Sherlock’s limp hand in his. 

“You should have told me,” John whispered, stroking Sherlock’s knuckles and then cupping his own face with his free hand when his expression crumpled in sorrow. Sherlock didn’t fully know what he was referring to but dipped his head in a faint nod.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

John nodded but didn’t respond verbally, squeezing Sherlock’s hand firmly and turning his covered face into Sherlock’s pillow. Sherlock watched him breathing and fighting his emotions silently, and then tugged John’s hand to his chest, curling over it and closing his eyes. 

“It’s…the best thing,” John finally said after a stretch of time where Sherlock was half drifting to sleep. “but I…I don’t want to, Sherlock. God…I don’t want to give them up.”

Sherlock knew he was talking easily because he thought Sherlock was asleep, or because he couldn’t fully see Sherlock’s face, either way, John didn’t seem to be looking for a response from his rambling, so Sherlock stayed silent and listened with his heart in his throat and a familiar fluttering in his stomach.

“I know that you’re right about…about them being in danger living with us, I get that, I thought of that ages back, basically from the start...I knew they’d be targets, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out,” John huffed, voice thick with emotion. “But I can’t let them go, Sherlock. I don’t want to. I don’t know what it will do to me to see them being taken off us…to see them for the briefest of moments before they would be carried away…we’d probably never see them again. Never—Just seeing them now, still growing, it…it does things to me, things I didn’t fully expect to be feeling or…or wishing or dreaming. From the start, we’ve known it would have been better to never have let them get to this stage, but we both couldn’t do it, couldn’t snuff out something so…precious.”

Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek and stared at John’s hand in his, stifling the need to shiver in overwhelming sentiment to John’s words. He traced the lines of John’s knuckles with his eyes, picked up on small calluses from gripping a cane, a gun, from washing his hands after every patient, from climbing buildings in Sherlock’s wake, and one patch from inadvertently leaning into one of Sherlock’s on-going experiments that had been left out on the table. 

“…Thirteen weeks…they’d be about 6.7cm long, about the size of a pea pod apparently; with fingerprints and working cheek muscles…” John mumbled, flexing his fingers around Sherlock’s own slowly, gently. “I know I said some mean things to you before, Sherlock…about wishing this was happening to me with someone else, so I could…experience being a dad properly or…or whatever it was that I said…but the truth of the matter is, I’m weirdly glad that they’re half yours. Maybe they’ll be just as brilliant and amazing as you are. Can you imagine that? Two mini yous just…just running around the place? Heh…and they’d grow up to be just like you, and solve crimes and help people…carry on your prodigy…it would be nice. Very nice.”

Sherlock took a breath just as John did as he continued, “You were right before…normal is boring…and if they are anything like you, maybe they’d understand and not be so…confused and freaked out about where they were for nine months…” John laughed lightly, sniffing the next and stroking one of Sherlock’s fingers. “But…but saying all that, I know that…that it would be better, safer, for them to be with other people as their parents than…us…so…we’ll contact Mycroft sometime soon and…sort it all out together. Maybe we’ll get to pick the family and…keep in contact or…or something…get annual updates from Mycroft, with photos and…pixelated video feed—God, how are we going to do this? This is all so messed up and backwards and unbearable. My thoughts are all over the place…and you…you’re probably the same, or rather, I hope you're the same; that we’re both in the same boat here. A sinking boat…not knowing whether to go down with it or swim for freedom…I’m not even making sense anymore, am I?”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock asked croakily.

“…What?”

Sherlock lifted his head a little and looked at John’s sad face, “Shall we talk to Mycroft, tomorrow?”

John seemed to hold his breath for a long stretch of time and then let it go all at once, shaking his head against the bed, “I…I don’t know…I suppose so…” 

“Another time then,” Sherlock mumbled, tightening his hold on John’s hand. 

John sighed and smiled wonkily, “Yeah, we’ve…we’ve got time,” he whispered, closing his eyes, looking rundown and tired.

“…Now, going back to what we were talking about before,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat and trying to grin. “I still want that ice cream.”

John peeked over at him with one eye and then burst into giggles, pulling Sherlock close for a one-armed hug, that had their knees and foreheads brushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback fuels me!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I am so sorry for the wait. I know a lot of you lovely people have been so eager for more, but this chapter (and the rest of the story that I'm planning) has been really difficult for me to write. I have suffered horrid writers block with this story (that's why I've written other things in my hope that it would kick start my inspiration and creativity for this story).
> 
> I didn't want to rush this, so it took way longer for me to write it, even if it may not seem like much. The reason why I struggled so much will (hopefully) be evident when you read it.
> 
> I may edit this chapter, as I'm still not 100% happy with it, as I had to rely a lot on research and I wanted to put something out for you lovelies. I didn't rush it, like I said, not really, but I have posted this when not completely sure on if I like it.
> 
> Sherlock is a bit of an arse in this. Again. When isn't he? Also, he's still around 13 weeks here.
> 
> Also, there isn't that much angst in this chapter.

When the next day arrived, Mycroft was not notified, just like they had discussed, and Sherlock and John acted as though he never would be. John spent the morning making and leaving Sherlock a few meals he had to eat during the day and then fetched Mrs Hudson up to, in effect, babysit Sherlock whilst John went into work; she had been about to make an excuse to be in the flat anyway, asking if she could tidy the sitting room and look after Sherlock, and so jumped at the chance once it was offered to her. Sherlock had complained and stomped his feet and sneered at her, but John knew that Sherlock wholly didn’t mean what he said, given the way Sherlock let Mrs Hudson stroke his arm and hug him close. John was sure that Sherlock had melted into her first embrace because his limbs had been lazily limp when she had gathered him up and petted his hair and face like a fretting and compassionate mother, feeding him tea and biscuits almost instinctively. 

The sight of Sherlock being calmed and cared for by Mrs Hudson stuck with John throughout the day and made him extremely glad that Sherlock had chosen to let Mrs Hudson in on their little secret. He had gone about it in the wrong way, but ultimately it was for the best. John knew they would need comfort from others in the coming few weeks and months, knew that he needed all the help he could get, from Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, as well as Mike, whom John wanted to see again and apologise to for his recent, prickly behaviour.

John arrived home early that evening to find Lestrade in the sitting room and Sherlock intently looking at him with interest, his mouth quirked very faintly and his fingers pressed up under his chin; but his expression shuttered when he noticed John’s presence, and he slowly got to his feet as John wandered over and smiled at Lestrade, lifting his eyebrows in question and then gesturing with one hand.

“Case,” Lestrade answered, “Julia Stoner. Early thirties. She was found in her bed with no obvious cause of death, well, apart from these weird red speckles all over her body — I was just telling Sherlock that her sister, Helen Stoner, says Julia had been feeling a bit rundown for the last few weeks but nothing out of the ordinary, and she put it down to the fact that the woman was to get married...that’s until she turned up dead, of course—”

“No autopsy yet?” Sherlock interrupted.

“No, not yet,” Lestrade said, glancing between them. “I was hoping that—”

“John will go,” Sherlock said, cutting Lestrade off again and waving a hand. “I’ll look into her family.” 

John tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes as Sherlock turned and left the room, but Sherlock avoided eye contact and only answered John’s unspoken questions by brushing passed him and touching his hand, but even that wasn’t anything John could fully understand. Exasperated, John watched him go over his shoulder and then went to follow with a loud sigh, signalling to Lestrade to wait a moment and trying to ignore the suspicious tightening of Lestrade’s expression as he looked John over with a slow nod.

Sherlock was rummaging in his wardrobe as John stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, “Don’t start,” Sherlock muttered, frostily, shooting a glance at John from behind his wardrobe door. “Everything will be fine.”

“Heh, yeah, I wonder when I heard that before? Sherlock, for crying out loud, I only just lectured you about this! I only rescued you—”

“You did not rescue me,” Sherlock interjected with frustration. 

“—I only just rescued you from a soulless, murderous killer, I don’t want to do it again,” John continued with a hard glare, watching Sherlock as he shrugged out of his dressing gown. “Have you learnt nothing? I thought we discussed this? I thought we were on the same sodding page, for once? I thought that we’d had some sort of breakthrough concerning the safety of you and the…the babies?”

Sherlock turned on him indignantly, “This is different.”

“How?” John scowled.

Sherlock threw down the clothes he was to change into and faced him with a deep breath, flashing John a disdainful smile that deepened John’s scowl, “John, you can’t keep me imprisoned in this flat.”

John shook his head with a scoff and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder before he could turn back around to his clothes, “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Well, that’s what it seems like. I understand the need; the urge to keep me safe, to keep me here, but you can’t just lock me away. I’ve told you before, and I shall keep telling you until you are the one that learns—I cannot and will not sit around doing nothing. I must do something. I need to do something. There will come a time when I can’t leave, for obvious reasons, but until then, I shall leave, and I will work. I know I scared you, and hurt you, and angered you, with my actions before, but I need this, John. Please.” he said, motioning then to the bedroom door as he shrugged out of John’s grasp. “Lestrade will suspect something if I don’t take at least some of his cases. In fact, you should blog about this when we’re done; you’ve left it for far too long. The last entry was about you and Sarah breaking up if I remember correctly...” 

“I think Lestrade already suspects something,” John mumbled as Sherlock pulled off his pyjama top, slinging it aside to grab for his shirt. John’s gaze dropped to the curve of his stomach almost automatically and he stepped up close to Sherlock’s side with concern churning in his gut and anger flaring up his spine.

“I know he does,” Sherlock breathed, his mouth twitching. “There’s a reason I work with him—John, would you stop worrying!”

“Come with me to see the body then,” John told him as Sherlock slipped on his shirt and began buttoning it up. “The reason I don’t like you going off on your own is because you’ll be on your own, Sherlock. I want to be close by in case something happens—and you can pull whatever face you like, you know I’m right! Anything could happen, Sherlock! Just because days go by without a hitch, doesn’t mean they will continue to do so! Everything about this…situation is dangerous and you need almost constant supervision. That’s why I want you to stay home, that’s why I’m angry with you when you stroll off without a thought for anyone, not even yourself!”

“Keep your voice down!” Sherlock hissed, glancing at his door and then back at John with a pinching of his expression. “I know, all right? I know.”

“You say that, but I feel like you don’t know at all; that or you just don’t give a damn,” John whispered lowly, trying to keep eye contact as Sherlock evaded him and changed into his trousers, fumbling with the belt around his bulged middle. “Why do you keep discounting what I tell you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock dropped his arms by his side stiffly, “I don’t.”

“Sure feels like it when you go off after people wielding guns with homicidal intent,” John told him crossly before calming in the next second and rubbing his face. “I just want—”

“I know,” Sherlock droned, looking at John with flitting eyes and then exhaling with a shifting smile. “Fine. Fine. I’ll go with you to see the body, and then we can look into her family. All right?”

“Yes,” John replied, glancing down at Sherlock’s stomach. “Be careful with your belt…and I’m bringing food and water for you, and you will take it. Do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock’s face darkened in aggravation but he nodded shortly, “Yes. Fine,” he groused, fiddling with his trousers, pulling them a little further up on his waist, and then slowly, carefully, buckling the belt. “I won’t eat in front of Lestrade though. In fact, don’t even look at me differently. I need you to just…act as if everything is the same, at least for today; otherwise Lestrade will definitely work out something is up, and I cannot and will not deal with the repercussions of that if he does. Not right now. I can’t face questions dealing with anything other than the case. I need to concentrate.”

John handed Sherlock his jacket and nodded, “I’ll try.” 

“Then go away,” Sherlock told him coldly as he turned his back on John. “And tell Lestrade you came in here to bother me about something or other—the longer you stay in here, the more suspicious Lestrade shall become. So get out.”

John scowled deeply at Sherlock’s tone but turned and walked out without another word, flashing Lestrade a tight-lipped smile as he returned to the sitting room. John automatically began complaining about Sherlock, tried the usual excuses and complaints, but trailed off halfway through and simply shrugged with all the irritation and resentment he felt at that moment.

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed knowingly with a wry grin. “I know, mate. I know. Is he coming with then?”

“…Yeah,” John nodded, briefly noticing that Sherlock had hidden the calendar at Lestrade’s arrival, as well as the folder and notebook that John had piled on the desk. Knowing they were hidden made John’s stomach turn, he needed to see the ultrasound images, to see the information, to double check and then triple check; John wanted to check Sherlock over in that moment, wanted to hear the soothing heartbeats of the unborn children.

“Good. Thought he would—not sure why he didn’t want to see the body in the first place, he always wants to see the body,” Lestrade said, walking to the door to leave. “I’ll meet you both at the mortuary.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” John replied, watching Lestrade go and then turning towards the kitchen to make Sherlock something to eat before they left. John really didn’t want Sherlock to be off on another case so soon, but at the same time, he knew that it would make Sherlock happy, knew that Sherlock wouldn’t give up a chance at a new case, not when it was so blatantly dropped onto his lap, and certainly not when Lestrade would question him outright if he snubbed something so interesting without a believable excuse.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock said as he appeared from his bedroom fully dressed, walking passed him to slip on his shoes and grab his coat. “I ate before Lestrade showed up. Just bring some water and an apple or something.”

John narrowed his eyes, “I’m bringing more than a bloody apple, Sherlock.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock retorted curtly, flicking his collar up and turning to the door but pausing to adjust his belt with a barely concealed wince.

“What? What is it?” John asked in sudden and overwhelming concern.

Sherlock waved him back with a sharp glare, “Nothing. Hurry up and get what you need,” he snapped before he paled, breathing through what looked to be a sudden bout of sickness; Sherlock cleared his throat afterwards, secured his scarf and ducked away with a fleeting glance at John.

“Sherlock!” John called, rushing to look down the stairs and catch sight of Sherlock just storming out onto pavement.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock shouted back.

John leaned against the doorframe with a long-suffering sigh and tried to push aside his nervousness and worry, turning to quickly fill his coat pockets with snacks and then an apple with a roll of his eyes. He lingered in the sitting room for a minute or two, staring at nothing and forcing himself to calm down; everything would be fine, he could keep an eye on Sherlock and everything would be fine. It wasn’t like the last time, he knew where Sherlock was going and he knew, more or less, what the case was about. John pulled out his mobile after another moment and with a wince sent a quick text to Mycroft to cover all bases, before he met Sherlock in the cab that Sherlock had, as always, artfully acquired with one flick of his wrist. 

Sherlock didn’t look at John throughout the cab ride and slowly curled an arm around his middle when they went over a few knocks in the road and then came to a sudden stop when the driver almost drove into a cyclist, prompting Sherlock’s face to crumple with annoyance and slight pain as the seatbelt dug roughly into his abdomen. John scowled suddenly and deeply at the back of the cabbie’s head, and gripped his own knees so tightly his knuckles cracked, holding back the need to shout and curse and complain. He felt extremely overprotective and wanted, more than anything, to touch Sherlock’s arm or hand in comfort, and itched to check the bump at Sherlock’s front, which he could faintly see pushing at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, bending the belt outwards, and curving the fabric of his shirt. To the casual observer, the bulge meant nothing and was hardly even visible, but to John it meant everything and he couldn’t take his eyes away from it. 

Once John and Sherlock got to the hospital the autopsy was performed and John discovered two small puncture marks on the dead woman’s right ankle as well as traces of an unidentified poison in her bloodstream, something that pointed to her possibly being bitten by something. John, hardly fully concentrating on the body on the table before him, watched Sherlock in the corner of his eyes as Sherlock paced, adjusted his hips, rubbed his nose, wiped his mouth, and then stood across the room on his own, rudely waving Molly away and then sitting down on a nearby stool with a wince from what John could only assume to be back pain. John sighed through his nose and tried not to let his concern show, tried not to stalk over to check on Sherlock and drag him back home to do a scan to check on the babies. John knew he might be overly using the ultrasound machine and probably even overthinking and worrying, but he also thought that with Sherlock, and how he’d acted before, how he continued to act, and how he was, it almost didn’t seem like enough, like John should be worrying more and definitely controlling Sherlock’s food intake a bit better than he had been doing. Sherlock had currently only gained three pounds, which was good considering how unwell he had been during the pregnancy, but it wasn’t as much as John would have liked.

Sherlock stood up, rubbed his nose and mouth again, and walked the length of the body to linger near Lestrade and mutter something to him, questioning him on the dead woman’s family from what John could make out. Sherlock then rubbed his mouth once more, turned to face away from both Lestrade and a worried looking Molly with a twisting of his mouth, and then took out his magnifying glass, bending close to the hands of the corpse with tensed interest, staring at nothing.

“Sherlock, do you want to take a look at this?” John asked calmly, lifting his head when Sherlock strolled slowly over with a tight expression. “What do you think? Bite mark? Insect? Snake? Can’t be a snake, can it? I mean—” 

Sherlock took one look at the ankle, shifted his stance, and then turned and headed for the door, “Don’t follow me,” he shouted when John jerked into motion at the same time as Lestrade. “I need the toilet, is that all right with everyone? Do I have permission to go?” Sherlock glared at John and then punched the doors open and stalked out, slipping into a run as the doors banged closed behind him.

John fiddled with his sleeve nervously and then shrugged at Lestrade with a quick smile, “He’s not been feeling well recently…you know what he’s like,” he said, clinging to the half-truth and hoping it sounded convincing enough.

Lestrade frowned deeply with a look of wariness but then shrugged lazily, “So, a bite mark you said?”

“Yeah,” John breathed, unable to stop his eyes from shifting to the doors and back. “I think so. Though, I can’t be sure—what did Sherlock ask you before he dashed to the loo?”

“About Julia’s family, if he could meet them. I said, yeah,” Lestrade replied. “Julia lived with her sister and their stepfather. We can go visit them after we’re done here.”

“What about her fiancé?” John asked

Lestrade nodded and leaned against a counter, “Him too, of course. Percy Armitage, is his name, if I remember correctly,” he murmured, pulling a notepad from his inner jacket pocket and flipping through it to double-check. “Yeah—will Sherlock be okay talking to them though? What with him being…unwell?”

John heard the underlining scepticism but decided to ignore it and inclined his head, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Just a stomach problem…” he mumbled and looked back at the corpse beside him, leaning in to check behind her ears, in her hair, her mouth, and in her eyes and eyelids. “Never stopped him before.”

He saw Lestrade’s eyebrow inch up at his tone of voice and turned his back to pretend to be interested in the woman’s fingernails just as Sherlock burst back in as dramatically as he had left. John looked over at him and straightened with question and curiosity, regarding the way Sherlock instantly pulled a face when he entered the room and took a very faint step back out.

“Let’s go. We’re done here. I want to meet her family now,” Sherlock said curtly, rubbing his nose and mouth, and gesturing at John with his other hand as he stalked back out with a look of actual relief.

John shot Molly an apologetic and thankful expression and rushed to Sherlock’s side, “You okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, looking waxy and pale and annoyed. “I needed to pee. Badly. They’re pressing on my bladder—I swear they’re doing it on purpose... also, the smell in there, the antiseptic, is vile and made me extremely light headed and sick, I had to leave. Molly smelt nice though…”

“Were you physically sick?” John asked, feeling his mouth stretch out into a smile in response to how Sherlock had spoken about the babies and Molly. “You…sure you’re up for this case?”

“Yes to both,” Sherlock muttered, wiping his forehead and then turning to wait for Lestrade to catch up with them so Sherlock could ask him about the location of Julia’s sister and stepfather.

***

Julia’s stepfather turned out to be a Doctor Roylott, some sort of big name in cosmetics, and just like Julia’s sister Helen, he seemed genuinely devastated by the death of his stepdaughter when they stopped off to see and question them; but Sherlock had stared at him shrewdly and wrinkled his nose at his cologne when he’d gotten too close, and so John had looked more attentively at the man as well, trying to see what it was that made Sherlock so suspicious until Sherlock suddenly demanded they leave and promptly threw up in a bush a few yards from the residence. Lestrade and John both rushed to his side at the same moment, and John watched with an affectionate spark in his chest when Lestrade pushed back Sherlock’s fringe and lectured him sternly in a low and biting voice whilst Sherlock retched and heaved with a shudder. Afterward Sherlock brushed Lestrade away the moment he straightened, but Lestrade grabbed his arm and checked his pupils and heart rate, gripping Sherlock’s face tightly in his grasp, concerned and guarded, until John had tugged him away and offered Sherlock a bottle of water to swill his mouth out and drink. 

John still didn’t know much of Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s history, but one look at Lestrade’s face at that moment had told John a lot; obviously Lestrade had been there during Sherlock’s drug taking as well as his withdrawal, had probably pushed back his hair as he vomited on more than one occasion, and so John wasn’t at all surprised when Lestrade then searched Sherlock’s arms and stared at John with a mixed expression of relief and annoyance. John tried to lie to Lestrade as little as possible, and again reiterated that Sherlock was merely suffering with stomach problems and that it was nothing he couldn’t handle, or otherwise ignore, and that no matter what John or Lestrade said, Sherlock would be Sherlock and continue on with the case regardless because he was a gigantic idiot. Sherlock glowered at him in response and spat water near to John’s shoes in annoyance, his face sweaty and his focus somewhat impaired when he stumbled away from the puddle of sick that John couldn’t help but inspect. Apparently Sherlock had indeed eaten before Lestrade showed up, but it had only been cereal and biscuits from what John could see, having seen enough vomit in his time to sort of guess the contents, as disgusting as it seemed.

Lestrade sighed in defeat with a nod but stuck with them when they went to meet with the fiancé, Percy Armitage, whom was a very eccentric sort of chap, who kept snakes, a fact John had jumped upon instantly with confidence, bringing up the theory that one of them could have bitten Julia; however Percy knocked away the blame by explaining that Julia hated the snakes and so wouldn’t go near them whatsoever. In fact, Percy also had a stable alibi for the night Julia was killed and said that he always kept his snakes within his own flat and nowhere near Julia’s home because of her heavy dislike of them. John didn’t know if he fully believed him, but Sherlock looked to, and almost instantly, as he nodded dismissively to Percy and instead leaned close to peer at a very large, and very relaxed, python, looking immensely interested in it before he had spun on his heel and left with a dramatic twirl of his coat that made both John and Lestrade roll their eyes as they trailed after him. 

The case carried on for a few days more, longer than John was fully comfortable and happy with because of Sherlock’s growing lack of interest in eating and drinking whatever John offered and insisted that he take every few moments. Sherlock had noticeably slipped back into himself, back to his old ways, and treated his body as merely transport, transport that just so happened to also be carrying two other lives that Sherlock seemed to forget about whenever he wasn’t violently throwing up or adjusting his trousers with huge discomfort. 

On one particular day Sherlock paced the flat and kicked over the coffee table, smacking the offered glass of water from John’s hand in vast frustration. He was convinced that Julia had been murdered in some way and not at all by a snake like John was almost sure of after meeting the fiancé; Sherlock refused to believe that a snake could slither into Julia’s room to kill her and have no one spot it going in or out, and so Sherlock took out his anger on John and the flat, as per usual. John dealt with it like one would a tantrum from a toddler, with patience and simmering but hidden anger, and gripped Sherlock’s arm sternly when he went to throw his chiming mobile phone across the sitting room. Sherlock had later calmed when his heightening vexations made him physically sick and John had knelt with him beside the toilet and rubbed his back and a cautious second later, had soothingly rubbed his stomach. Sherlock smiled a contorted and abashed smile at John that expressed his apology without him having to actually say it aloud, and John nodded and sat him down on the settee to make him finally eat and drink with Mrs Hudson suddenly bustling and fussing over Sherlock a second later, having been bothered from the sound of shouting and Sherlock being fiercely sick.

Afterwards, however, Sherlock had almost instantly reverted back to his usual self and paced the room, gripped his hair, and angrily ranted. In addition to the frantic need to find the truth so John could make Sherlock focus more on the pregnancy and the health of himself and the babies, Helen had then gotten in touch and started to complain that she was feeling much the same way as her sister had before she had passed. Thankfully, Sherlock, although still struggling with sickness and fatigue, had formed a quick and informative idea; and with assistance from Helen, he had relived Julia’s last night in her bedroom with John constantly staying close to his side and with food and drink whenever he thought Sherlock needed it, which turned out to be more than Sherlock was happy about.

John wasn’t pleased at all with the way things had gone, even with being so close to Sherlock, John had been incredibly concerned and anxious whenever Sherlock had paled and swayed and fought back the need to vomit. Sherlock had also frequently and unconsciously, touched and rubbed at his waistline, wincing and grimacing with discomfort until he had finally turned his back to the room to loosen his belt with a silent but heavy sigh of relief, which thankfully went unnoticed by Helen, as John had taken her aside to distract her and give Sherlock a small moment of privacy.

Sometime during the dramatisation and recounting of Julia’s last moments, Sherlock found a rather expensive bottle of bubble bath, developed by Julia’s stepfather’s company and something Helen herself had been using. Apparently, according to Helen, it was unavailable to the public but their stepfather had insisted it had been tested and proved safe to use and had given it to Helen and her sister to try. John and Sherlock exchanged a look at the new data, the new piece of evidence, and John could tell by the way Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched that Sherlock was massively infuriated that he had not been told such vital information at the start of the case.

After Sherlock had taken the bottle to Bart’s and analysed the contents, he instantly found a slow-acting poison and explained to Helen, a little too coldly, that her stepfather had killed her sister and was trying to do the same to Helen herself; and that he had placed the puncture marks onto Julia’s ankle only to frame the fiancé for Julia’s death because he had been such an easy target logically, given that he owned quite a number of snakes.

Sherlock and John then rushed back to the family home with Lestrade in tow to confront the man, but found that he had hanged himself from a kitchen light fitting just a few hours ago, leaving no note, no explanation as to why, much to Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s obvious displeasure. 

John couldn’t understand the man, had the man just been mad? Why on earth had he wanted to kill his stepdaughters? It made John even more protective over Sherlock for some insane, maddening, reason, and made him touch the back of Sherlock’s back as they walked towards the awaiting taxi after Lestrade had taken over and demanded that Sherlock go home to recuperate and to never take on a case whilst unwell again. Sherlock had glared and sneered and been instantly ignored as Lestrade stared through him, utterly unimpressed with his behaviour and signalling to John take Sherlock away with a flippant wave of his hand that Sherlock huffed at.

Once they returned home, John angrily badgered Sherlock to eat and drink some more, again, and Sherlock scowled and stormed off into his room to slip back into his pyjamas and sulk on his bed until John went in to give him the food.

“This is why I don’t want you to—” John started as he placed down the glass of orange juice and plate of food onto Sherlock’s bedside.

“Tough,” Sherlock cut in with a glare as he sat up on his bed and pulled his legs in to his chest. “Some cases cannot be disregarded, not when it would be out of character…not when they are so intriguing. Now, leave me alone.”

“Eat. Then I will.”

“No, you won’t,” Sherlock complained, narrowing his eyes on John. “You want to do an ultrasound—everything is fine! I ate, I drank.”

John sat on the edge of the bed angrily and thrust the plate at him, “Not enough. Eat.”

Sherlock snatched the plate from him and straightened his legs slowly, “Thought of a stupid case title for this one yet?” he asked mockingly with his mouth full.

“Yeah. I have actually,” John told him. “The Speckled Blonde.”

Sherlock paused in his chewing, pulled a face, blinked, and then laughed throatily grinning abruptly at John when John smirked and patted his knee, joining in his laughter after a few seconds of watching Sherlock consciously try not to choke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this is why it took me so long...this story is interwoven into the series somewhat. This means that I have to basically rewrite a lot of the cases to fit around the pregnancy, which I hope you all like the thought of(?). Also Jim Moriarty is still around...Sherlock wasn't joking when he said he had enemies.
> 
> If, you think this won't work or you don't like the thought of it, I can rewrite this chapter and this story shan't be linked to the series at all and will be on its own and only show the pregnancy and how John and Sherlock deal with it, and nothing more.
> 
> Let me know. I write these stories for myself and for you, I want to you to be as involved as possible.
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* This chapter has more discussion of adoption.
> 
> Please don't hate me. Please forgive me.
> 
> It's been so long since I updated this story, I know. It's taken me a very long time to try and plan everything out, and I've still not finished! Whenever I write this story, I have hundreds of tabs open, lots of documents on display, images lined up, and youtube videos of expectant mothers on pause, so I can move between them and make sure the information I have is somewhat correct. I have done so much research on pregnancy and biology and hormone problems, it's...it's crazy.  
> Also, my muse refuses to help me when I sit down and try and write this story. I don't want to force myself, because then it will probably end up being really rubbish, so that's why it's been so long.
> 
> I really hope this chapter is as good as the rest. I really hope I haven't disappointed any of you and that you will stick by me and this story till the end!  
> I've acted out a lot of what will happen and let me just say this, I cried. A lot. I sometimes act out scenes, so I can get the right sort of emotion and reactions, I get into the character, act and move like them (to the best of my ability), and each scene that I have acted out and taken notes on, has left me crying my eyes out haha So, not sure if that's a good sign or not. This story is very angst-y, as you all know by now.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this chapter! I will try to get the next one out quicker but please be aware that this story is actually taking a lot of work to do and I cannot promise you that the other chapters will be out quickly. However, every comment I get, any piece of feedback from you lovely, wonderful people, really does help me and pushes me onwards with this story. Without you, I don't think I would have gotten to 14 chapters. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't have, and wouldn't have, put so much work and pride into this if it weren't for all of you.
> 
> \-- Also, on a side note, I just wanted to show you all how big Sherlock is. Now, as I've said previously, in another note (I think), not every woman shows the same amount of baby bump. I've gone through literally hundreds of images of women pregnant with twins and sometimes they are showing very obviously and very quickly, when others don't show until much later on.   
> Sherlock is a man, not a woman, so I wanted his experience to be the same as a pregnant woman but...really not. I didn't want Sherlock to be showing so quickly and I have an example of what I mean. This [woman](http://inshapeafterbabies.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/Image-5.jpg) here is pregnant with twins, and she is 14 weeks in the photo, this is what Sherlock looks like. The woman in the photo is very athletic and keeps fit, and so has the sort of body I think Sherlock has. Thin, lean, etc etc. The woman also had a lot of trouble keeping things down, which Sherlock still has, so this also accounts for the lack of bump on Sherlock's behalf.  
> At some point, I may draw the stages of pregnancy of Sherlock, so you can all see the progression, but it depends if it's needed, I'm sure you all have great imaginations and don't really need much in the way of imagery to aid you.

Sherlock looked down at his fingernails with interest as he sat in the bath and picked at them, bending his legs up when his back and pelvis ached from the position he had taken. His nails, as well as his hair, looked stronger, thicker and longer, and Sherlock had even noticed that his hair felt softer and looked a richer, darker shade than it did normally. Sherlock leaned his arms on his upturned knees and sighed, scratching gently at his scalp with his slightly longer nails and then carding his fingers through his hair. According to the calendar, Sherlock was around fourteen weeks pregnant, meaning he was fully within the second trimester at that point, yet still Sherlock was feeling unwell and overly tired and in constant aching pain. Sherlock huffed as one such wave of discomfort had him shifting his position again, and he leaned back to rest his head against the edge of the bath, peering down the length of his naked body.

The bump of his abdomen had grown, pushing obviously from his normally lean stomach, and Sherlock touched it gently, stroking his finger over his belly button when he noticed it was faintly different in shape and pressed out from pressure. Sherlock frowned and sat up a little to get a better look at how some part of his navel was showing when normally it would be hidden within.

“You’re making my “innie” an “outie,”” Sherlock complained aloud, tracing the bulge of the protruding uterus under his skin and then smoothing his palm over his stomach when his muscles ached. He stared at his skin and moved to sit back up as he checked for any stretch marks; he already had some on his legs from his rapid growth spurt as a child, but the idea of earning some more from the pregnancy wholly bothered him and made him feel dull and emotional. Once the unborn were taken, all he’d have would be the scars, both from the pregnancy and the birth; he’d be left riddled and striped with what he’d done, marked for life as a failure, an idiot, a sociopathic monster.

As he searched his middle with increasing roughness a fluttering started up and he paused, pulling his hands away and gazing down at the faint bump. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was meant to feel such movement or not, as John had looked surprised when he’d first started feeling the fluttering. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was such an observant person? Perhaps it was because the unborn were already afraid of him, already hated him for what he’d done? 

Sherlock snorted with a faint, unstable, and wobbly grin that disappeared all too quickly and then glanced towards the bathroom door as John walked passed, then lingered, and walked passed again. John had been pacing in front of the bathroom door every few moments ever since Sherlock had locked himself away inside for some privacy and time away from John’s and Mrs Hudson’s fussing, not to mention the bothersome ultrasound machine, and Sherlock was getting sick and tired of hearing his footsteps, let alone John’s constant shifting in weight as he went to knock only to not do so and walk off. The repeating cycle of doubt and worry made Sherlock clench his toes in frustration and bite the inside of his cheek. He hated when John loitered and fretted and was a dreadful bore.

“John,” Sherlock said briskly when John walked passed again. “Enough. I’m fine. You’ve forced food into me, drink, and even made me to watch that God awful movie with you—can’t I have a few moments alone?”

“You’ve been in there for almost three hours, Sherlock,” John replied. “I know you have long baths, but this is ridiculous. Isn’t the bath water cold by now?”

Sherlock swirled his hand in it purposely, “No. Anyway, I’m flushed, I don’t want the bath water to be overly warm.”

John was quiet a moment and Sherlock rolled his eyes, predicting the next course of the conversation even before John started speaking again, “Still suffering from hot flushes? Are they bad?”

“Just go away,” Sherlock replied curtly, straightening when the sudden need to vomit surged over him from a strong smell of washing up liquid that Sherlock surmised was coming from Mrs Hudson in their kitchen. He blinked and fought it back, breathing deeply and staring into his reflection in the water until he shuddered, gripped the edge of the bath and dry heaved silently, squeezing his eyes shut. The fluttering started up again and Sherlock opened his eyes, pressing a hand over his mouth as he leaned sideways against the bath and breathed deeply, rubbing his nose with a grimace.

“…Are you at least sleeping any better?”

Sherlock glared at the door deeply, “Go. Away.”

“Sherlock, I just want to make sure that—”

“Go away!” Sherlock growled, covering his face and then sinking down into the water before he heard John’s reply, blowing bubbles as he exhaled. John’s voice was faintly muffled as he said a few more words and then walked off, and Sherlock blinked open his eyes and stared up at the distorted and waving, rippling bathroom ceiling from underwater, listening to his own heart beat and the dull sounds of his elbows knocking into the sides of the bath as he shifted.

The fluttering came and went once more, and Sherlock glanced down his body again, staring at the curve of his stomach and then his chest as he prodded the sore and slightly swollen area around his nipples. The swelling wasn’t massive, but the soreness had seemed to increase as time had gone on, making it hard for Sherlock to wear tops without being in constant discomfort whenever the fabric brushed across his chest. John had once mentioned gynecomastia to Sherlock, the enlargement of a man’s breasts due to some sort of hormone imbalance that would make the chest tissue swollen and tender, and for a while Sherlock feared he was suffering just that, due to the obvious high doses of oestrogen that his body was producing because of the pregnancy; Sherlock had also wondered if he would lactate at all, as he had heard that it was possible for men to do so under certain circumstances, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do so himself, especially if the unborn would be taken away from him. What a sad picture he would make if he did lactate, wetting the top of his shirts pathetically as yet another constant reminder of what he’d had that he didn’t have any longer.

When he sat up out of the water, he sighed and rubbed his lower back and hips, massaging across his pelvis to chase away the ache, briefly wishing John was there to efficiently press and loosen his tensed up muscles, as he had done once before. The need to urinate was sudden and he groaned, scowling at the floor as he scrambled out of the bath and lifted the lid of the toilet in record time, shivering and trying not to notice that the view of his crotch was slowly going to be obscured by his growing middle in the weeks to come. 

“Sherlock?”

“What, John?” Sherlock snapped as he flushed the toilet and grabbed for a towel with a chattering of his teeth, rolling his eyes at the swift change from being too hot to being too cold.

“Come out now. It’s time you ate some more, and I want to… talk to you,” John told him from the other side of the door.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shifted on his feet at yet another bout of fluttering, “No.”

“Sherlock—”

“No, I don’t want to talk,” Sherlock reiterated as he pulled the plug and slicked back his hair, tying the towel around his waist before he unlocked the door and looked at John who was waiting with his hands on his hips and his face strained in stubborn determination. “Move.”

John’s eyes fell to Sherlock’s middle quickly but briefly, “Come into the sitting room.”

“No.”

“Now,” John ordered firmly.

Sherlock eyed him and then clenched his jaw, “Can I at least get dressed first?”

John frowned gently at his tone and nodded, stepping aside, and Sherlock stomped off to his room, slamming the door behind him and leaning back against it. Sherlock pondered on what John wanted to discuss and tipped his head back as he felt his face suddenly crumple with emotion, his tears mingling with the water dripping from his hair. He snarled and scrubbed at his eyes, sitting down on his bed so heavily that he winced and cupped his stomach with a wrinkle of his nose and a tensed breath through his teeth. Was John going to try and stop him from taking cases again? Was he going to try and discuss the future of the unborn again? Sherlock peered down at his abdomen and then stood up, pacing his bedroom and briskly and efficiently patting himself dry. He pulled on some loose pyjama bottoms and made them looser by breaking the waistband with a grunt and a snarl, gripping them tightly with rigid fingers and shaking arms until they creaked loudly, the elastic tearing.

As he pulled on his dressing gown and fiercely tied the sash, he realised he was weeping softly and paused, sniffling and sobbing with his head bowed and his eyes tightly clenched. He retreated to his mind palace in the next second and turned to face the door to the still lightly cornered off room, pushing the palm of his hand against the surface of the door without hesitation, and watching as it bloomed with colour. The throbbing light that framed it shone a bit brighter and flickered in time with the burbling and joyful squeaking of children. The light flowed out like liquid and crawled over the door to touch his fingers and Sherlock felt awash with warmth before he yanked his hand back and the door darkened, suddenly covered in more bolts and chains and locks that jingled menacingly and covered up the sounds from inside the room as well as the light. Sherlock blinked slowly and when he looked again a wall had covered the door, seeping with white paint to cover the rough, red texture of the bricks. Mycroft and Lestrade appeared behind him, both placing a hand on his shoulders and he turned to look at their disappointed faces. Mycroft was the one more in focus, his face crisp and vivid, and Sherlock concentrated on him with a tremor through his body, remarking that the expression Mycroft wore was the same one he’d shot at Sherlock in the back of his car. Disappointment and disgust with a hint of livid unease, an expression that made a lump form in Sherlock’s throat and made him feel small and guilty and shameful and upset.

A sudden warm presence in front of Sherlock made him return to reality and he glanced up at John whom frowned at him in concern with Mrs Hudson lingering in the doorway behind him, and Sherlock looked them over as he allowed John to take his pulse and check his temperature whilst he sat passively on the bed and regarded them, unsure when he had sat down. He let his eyes run over Mrs Hudson first, noticing the suds at her elbows and the way she picked at her fingernails, and looked away with a strained sigh, shoving John away with one hand. Sherlock hated them both. Hated their caring natures. Hated the looks of pity, of worry, of sentiment. Sherlock darted his eyes back towards Mrs Hudson’s hands and straightened up with sudden attention.

“You’ve been knitting. Why have you been knitting? In fact, you’ve been sewing and crocheting also, and you’ve been doing so for the past five hours or more.” He stated, and looked toward John with narrowed consideration. “You…didn’t know?”

John sighed and glanced over at Mrs Hudson as she looked at her own hands with frown thrown in exasperation at Sherlock, “No. I didn’t. I rather think it was meant to be a surprise.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up; hissing angrily when John reached out to aid him, “I’m not an invalid, John!” he snarled and strode from his room, ignoring the weight at his pelvis and the ache that bloomed across his lower back. “I’m sick of this! Sick of you. Both of you. When will it ease? When will it end? I’ve had enough of being pitied and reminded that I—” 

The living room was warm, the fireplace crackling, and piled on the settee was a pile of maternity trousers and t-shirts that were simple and plain in colour, wrapped tightly and neatly by a practiced hand. Sherlock’s eye twitched and he walked over slowly, feeling the ever-close presence of John as he trailed behind at a short distance and kept knowingly quiet. Sherlock knew that the clothes weren’t John’s doing the closer he was to them, as they were custom made to fit Sherlock’s legs and torso, the fabric expensive and long lasting, and the colours muted in a way to not garner much attention. Both the trousers and the t-shirts came in an almost vast array of styles, from suit trousers with a flexible hem that would stretch over and cover a protruding stomach; dark denim jeans with the same stretchy band; stylistically baggy pyjama bottoms; and shirts, jumpers and tops that would easily and comfortably expand and cover Sherlock perfectly throughout the rest of the pregnancy. The broken waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas slipped down his hips a little and Sherlock inhaled sharply with a clenching of his jaw and hands.

“That’s…not exactly why I wanted to talk to you. It’s part of it but…” John said quietly as he shifted to be in Sherlock’s line of sight, staring at the clothes as well and scratching his jaw, one of his many nervous ticks. 

“We were discussing names,” Mrs Hudson chirped, unknowing to Sherlock’s raising anger. 

John looked to her and lifted a hand, “Mrs H, could you just…”

“I recommended Christopher as a choice. Such a lovely name, don’t you think?” She asked as she bustled around in the kitchen, placing down a plate of food, mugs of tea, and a small dish of handmade brownies. “You are going to name the two lovelies soon, aren’t you? It’s best to get the decisions done ahead of time, I think. I’m sure I said that before? Anyway, I was just telling John that it’s a good thing you’ve both decided to keep the little darlings; they’re better off here. Children deserve both of their parents around, and you’ll both make such wonderful fathers! We’ll make do, you’ll see, everything will be fine—I was thinking about redecorating and changing 221C, expand a bit, put it to good use. I’m not sure what it could be at the moment but…you need a lot of space for children, they grow up so quick!”

Sherlock turned around and Mrs Hudson stuttered to a stop with a frown at the look on Sherlock’s face, looking surprised at his enraged expression, although the lines around her mouth and eyes were defiant, motherly and apprehensive. John hung his head and slumped his shoulders but glanced up at Sherlock with a firm resolve, his eyes hard and his mouth tight, hands steady at his sides. Sherlock’s mind whirled, his eyes losing focus, and he pondered how much of what Mrs Hudson had insinuated had truly been discussed between them, and if any of it had actually come from John’s mouth or if it had only been Mrs Hudson’s one-sided nattering. Even so, clearly John had not been fully invested in the conversation they had had, given the fact that he had paced outside the bathroom and plagued Sherlock’s senses with uneasy shambling and lingering for several hours, unwilling to leave Sherlock alone for even a moment.

“Christopher is exceedingly pedestrian,” Sherlock said harshly with a painful constricting of his chest, unwilling to properly address what else had been said by her, nor what might have been spoken about in his absence, if anything had been talked about at all.

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue as John lifted his chin, “Eat. Then we can talk.” John said, sweeping an insistent and uncompromising hand to the kitchen table. 

“What about William?” Mrs Hudson suggested, either not seeing the dark look Sherlock sent her as he sat down or ignoring it.

John smiled tersely, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Could you give us a moment?”

“Of course, dear. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything else,” She beamed and petted Sherlock’s damp hair fondly on her way out, her eyes twinkling happily.

Sherlock allowed the touch without complaint and avoided John’s persistent look until he heard Mrs Hudson’s door shut, “She did that on purpose you realise.”

“Yeah,” John grunted and watched intently as Sherlock forced food into his mouth one piece at a time, his stomach rolling and churning as the tension around them thickened and his stress levels increased. Sherlock closed his eyes to try and reign in his reaction and control his emotions, but the fluttering at his pelvis destroyed his determination and he hunched quickly over his plate.

John’s hand slipped to his shoulder warmly, “I didn’t exactly want to talk to you about names but…about…what we’re going to do. About everything we’re going to have to do,” he whispered, waiting until Sherlock acknowledged him with a faint turn of his head before he continued. “I know we both sort of agreed to…not…talk about it, by not talking about it. I know you want to leave it. To not contact Mycroft. To not do anything, right now. But. But we need to…do…something. Say something. We really need to plan everything out, and I mean everything. So we need to discuss… everything.”

“We’ll do whatever you want,” Sherlock uttered.

“I want to keep them. Here. With us.” John replied bravely, his hand still on Sherlock’s shoulder as he stared at the side of Sherlock’s face unblinkingly. “What do you want?”

Sherlock felt sick, “We’ve had this discussion.”

“No,” John said, roughly shaking his head. “No. We haven’t. You…lay there whilst I talked. Whilst I told you what I feared, what I had thought about, obsessed about, what I wanted…but you never…never told me what you wanted, and that was…weeks ago. I know I said that we had time but…but time can easily run away with us—Now, I know you don’t want to terminate, you’ve made that pretty clear, but I still don’t know where you stand on…adoption. You gave me the impression you fear for them, that you care for their safety, and that you’ve thought about their futures and you decided that—”

“Stop talking.”

John glared, “Sherlock, we need to talk about this, God damn it!” 

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut briefly, “Fine,” he said curtly after a tensed silence in which John breathed heavily through his nose in anger. “I don’t.”

“You don’t, what?” John asked, pulling his hand back.

“I don’t want them,” Sherlock intoned, staring at the plate before him, the back of his throat burning with the raising need to vomit. “It’s true that I don’t wish…that I could not and cannot terminate them, but that doesn’t mean I want them here.”

“Look at me and say that.”

Sherlock shook his head, “No.”

“Then I don’t believe you,” John told him lowly.

“Believe what you like, John. You wanted to discuss this, wanted to know what I want, what I thought? They shouldn’t be with us. They shouldn’t be subjugated to a life within these walls, shouldn’t know that they came into this world as mistakes. They were an experiment. I did not want them. I almost destroyed them. I’m not a good man, I’m not someone designed to have children, and I’m not just talking about the physical aspect—”

“You’re just saying that because—”

Sherlock jerked his head around and glowered, “What I say now is what I said then, and what I shall continue to say, whenever you ask me this ridiculous line of questioning! They would be happier, safer, and better off not knowing anything about me!”

John returned Sherlock’s stare back at him, “Why are you singling yourself out?”

“Because you are not like me, John. You…you are compassionate. You would…” Sherlock trailed off and gripped the edge of the table, fighting back wave after wave of nausea before he could carry on. “You’ve wanted this. You saw children somewhere in your future. I never did…and now, now I still don’t. I can’t have them in my life, John. I have no time for children. I have no want for them. What I want, is what I had before all this; I want the work. Nothing more.”

Nodding, John shot him a tight smile, “I’m going to read between the lines and just say that… I’m scared too, Sherlock. I am. So bloody scared. I told you that, I told you,” he huffed, rubbing his forehead and then reaching out to hover his palm before Sherlock’s stomach, waiting until Sherlock gave permission with a tilt of his chin before he slowly cupped the warm bump. “I understand. All right? You don’t have to put up a front all the time—don’t give me that look. If you really only cared about the work, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t. And you know we wouldn’t. You’re trying to distance yourself, I get that, and I’m…not entirely mad about it because I really do understand. We both know that it could be better for them to have a normal life with…with normal…normal parents. It would be better for them and…possibly better for us, because we’d know they’d be taken care of and…”

“John,” Sherlock interjected softly. “Whatever you think you know—”

“I want to keep them, Sherlock. I want them here,” John interrupted, looking pained for a second until he wiped his face blank. “However, I…I’ve been thinking about it a lot and…and I get it…I do…I know what you’re trying to do, trying to say, to…protect them and yourself from—Christ, it’ll be so painful…I don’t know if I can let them go silently. I’m sorry. I really don’t know what I’ll do…we seem to just go round in circles whenever I try and talk about this with you. God. Why is this so hard?”

“Will you…leave?” Sherlock asked quietly, feeling his lips tremble as tears welled all too quickly in his eyes. “You could. You could leave and…take them with you. Have a life with them. A damn sight better one than you’d have with me…”

John sat forward and shook his head sharply, “No. I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” he stated with fortitude, and then sighed. “Let’s…talk about something else. Something still related but not…that. I don’t want to argue or put it off but—Right. Firstly, after you’ve eaten and had a bit of a rest, I’d like to do an ultrasound, just as a check-up, make sure everything is still…fine. Then I want to go over the…operation you’ll have to endure once the babies are ready to be born, because it won’t just be a C-section, you’ll be having the female reproductive organs taken out as well. Yes? You do still want that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, wondering if John could feel the strong fluttering just under his hand. Was it even there? Or was it all in Sherlock’s own mind?

John nodded, “Right. I’ve written it all down but…I’d like to actually go over it with you, more than once, so you understand everything. All right?”

“I assume I’ll be forced to remain in hospital for some time afterward?”

“…For a bit, yeah,” John acknowledged before he noticed the food left on Sherlock’s plate. “Could you eat a bit more, please? Just try and finish the plate, okay?” 

Sherlock glanced bleakly at the food and leaned his elbows on the table, “What’s the point? I’ll only bring it back up again in an hour’s time. Possibly less so going by the turning of my stomach.”

“Just…eat. Please.”

Sherlock sighed and forced a forkful of food into his mouth, chewing methodically and not tasting anything at all. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy, he could hardly taste what he was eating but he felt sick all the same and the presence of John’s hand on the slight protrusion at his abdomen, made him both calm and hysterical at the same time.

***

Sherlock lay back on his bed and untied his dressing gown, letting it open softly to reveal the curving of his stomach and looked away when John gazed at it longer than he had done before, his rough but warm fingers tracing the size and shape of it with the care and amazement that came from being an expectant parent as well as a doctor. With John’s hand mapping the protrusion, it looked bigger and more daunting that it had been when Sherlock was in the bath, and he eyed the shape and look of his belly button as he breathed, searching again for stretch marks that weren’t there.

“Any discomfort, Sherlock?” John asked him in a tone that hinted he’d asked the question once before without Sherlock responding.

“No.”

“Good,” John nodded, smoothing his palms over Sherlock’s front in soothing circles and swipes that made Sherlock’s eyelids heavy in relaxation. “What about your chest? Any more swelling or soreness?”

Sherlock lifted his chin when John then reached up to check his nipples and pressed down with the pads of his fingers very gently, “No. No more than usual.”

“Hm. I can see you flinching, Sherlock,” John muttered and bent over him to inspect the slightly puffy area. “If it gets any worse…I might have to run a few tests, okay? Just to rule things out. Blood tests and possibly a mammogram, all right? I think… I might also want another urine sample from you at some point…”

“Fine.”

John moved back to the bump, stroked his left hand over it in an almost subconscious way, and then took Sherlock’s wrist, checking his pulse. The thought of John holding a baby, even two, seemed right when Sherlock took the time to picture it, nearly horrendously so, and Sherlock felt how his mouth bent and tightened at the imagery. Sherlock hoped the unborn took after John, in both looks and character; wished that they would both grow up with compassionate hearts and strong wills, with John’s smile and laugh and steady, tight loyalty. The mental image of John with his arms cradling two babies with fine blonde hair and a small but strong hands wrapped around John’s fingers, was bright and extremely vivid behind Sherlock’s eyes, and he swallowed tightly when the scene continued to play out, only for the babies to be snatched away from John and given to an awaiting faceless woman and man with outstretched arms. The concept made Sherlock’s entire body ache and he screwed his eyes up fleetingly to erase it.

When he had composed himself he noticed that John had brought the notebook with Sherlock’s progress with him as well as the roll of measuring tape. John shot him an affectionate look and then he carefully and silently slipped the tape around Sherlock’s middle, jotting down the new measurement with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Putting both notebook and tape aside, John rolled down the loose waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas, and if he noticed they were broken he didn’t mention it as he tucked in a paper towel over the hem and applied the gel. The gel was lukewarm, not cool as it had always been before, and Sherlock peered at John from the corner of his eyes with a small frown.

“Do you want to see them?” John murmured tenderly when he pushed down and slanted the probe, finding both the unborn easily with a soft expression and quiet sigh of happiness and relief. 

“No.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock sighed and kept his head turned away pointedly, “Yes.”

John exhaled deeply through his nose but didn’t press the issue, “How are you doing otherwise? Any concerns? Any new pains? Are you going to the toilet all right?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Have you been doing those pelvic exercises that I told you about?” John asked, moving the probe slowly. The monitor was tilted slightly toward Sherlock and he caught a glimpse of a stretching mass that suddenly shifted into focus and became a curled up body that moved around in a lively wriggled, and shot a surge of emotion through Sherlock’s core that squeezed his heart and closed his throat.

“Yes,” Sherlock choked when John frowned at him in instant concern. “Just get on with it, John.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head harder into his pillow, “John. Enough.”

“Fine,” John exhaled deeply, pushing and smearing the probe across Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock surmised, without needing to look at John’s face, that John was going to continue to speak regardless. “Everything looks fine. Both babies are healthy and very active. They’re about 8cm long now and roughly 40g. Their bodies are growing a little faster than their heads, which is normal, and, although you can’t see it on here, they’d be covered in an ultra-fine, downy hair called lanugo, which will disappear before birth. Their eyebrows should be growing and the hair on their heads is also developing—and one of them is currently sucking his thumb.”

Sherlock twitched and opened one eye, then the other, glancing sideways at John, “Sucking his thumb?”

John smiled at him and turned the monitor more, “Looks like it. Could be nothing, of course, but…certainly looks like he’s sucking his thumb. Don’t you think?”

“Can they? That young?” Sherlock asked, beside himself with sudden and immense curiosity as he pushed up onto his elbows slowly to see more clearly.

“Yeah. Their facial muscles are shifting expressions too. They can squint, frown, and grimace, and can grasp things,” John told him faintly, gazing at the image on the screen with intense emotion, his smile growing with every passing second. “Let me try and get a better view of him…”

Sherlock watched fixedly as John replaced and moved the transducer, pushing down enough to press uncomfortably on Sherlock’s bladder, “Which…one is it?”

“Twin B,” John replied and pointed with his index finger as he pushed a little more on Sherlock’s stomach to fit the entirety of the baby in sight. “Do you see? His little arm is bent and this bit here, this bumpy smudge, that’s his hand. Let’s just check on his brother a moment—Oh, and he’s sucking his thumb as well. How…how bizarre. I’ve…never really seen that…it’s almost like a mirrored image. That’s…wow…” 

Sherlock swallowed, trying to work passed the lump in his throat, and stared at the screen as John showed him one baby at a time. The sight of them made his heart race and he watched, slightly spellbound, as the babies seemed to react to the sudden pounding of his heart by bucking and squirming together. Sherlock took a shaky breath, knowing that the wall he’d so recently put up in his mind was cracking, and turned to look down at his stomach. It was strange to think that beyond skin and muscle and organs were two living beings, and Sherlock felt his hands twitch at his side.

John saved the images with quick and happy movements, and then spent another several minutes staring at the monitor, watching the shapes of his children kick and shift, before he pulled the probe away, wiped up the gel, and turned to look down at Sherlock. The look he gave Sherlock was full of happiness and expectation, and Sherlock hated it immediately.

“When do you want the urine sample?” Sherlock asked him as he covered his body with his dressing gown again and sat up into a burst of fluttering that made him jump.

John’s expression faltered and he glanced at his watch, “I suppose I could get it now—”

“Good.”

“Sherlock,” John started as Sherlock made for the door, and Sherlock clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what John wanted. “We…we will talk again about…adoption. We need to come to a decision about it. A proper one. We can’t keep skirting the issue—I know I’m a main cause, but so are you. You say you don’t want them, you say all that, you act…the way you do, but I know you don’t want to give them up just as much as I don’t. They are just as much yours as they are mine, and I…I can’t give up on them…I won’t.”

Sherlock felt another flutter as he turned and stared vacantly, coldly at John’s hope riddled face, “You want one thing, and I want another. We won’t agree on this. This is why I wanted to leave the choices up to you.”

“But, Sherlock—”

“John, I don’t want children. I pick the work. I always pick the work. I won’t be without it, surely you know this by now?” Sherlock said briskly. 

John huffed grimly, “Yeah. Yeah, but I had hoped these innocent, beautiful human beings that you’ve created meant more to you than some bloody puzzle to solve, Sherlock—I saw the way you looked at the screen just then. I see the way you move, the way you act, the way you…you look when you think I’m not paying attention. I know it’s been hard on you, I know your thoughts, your feelings are all over the place, but I know, in my heart, that you—”

“Think what you like,” Sherlock snapped. “If you want to keep them, you can. I shan’t stop you. But know that I want no part in their lives. I want nothing to do with them. I want no one knowing they have anything to do with me. Understood? You can play Daddy all you like when the time comes, but I want nothing to do with it.” 

Sherlock turned his back to John and only managed to take one long and shaking step before John spoke, “It’ll hurt, Sherlock,” he whispered lowly. “I’ll hurt so much. Giving them up—I won’t do this without you. I can’t. Not on my own. I can’t look after two children alone. Please, please, Sherlock…”

“Let me try this another way; it would be selfish. You, in particular, would be selfish if you forced me into allowing them to live here,” Sherlock tried, not looking back. “I detest repeating myself, John, I really do…but we’ve known from the very beginning that it would be better for them to not be around us because of the dangers that surround us. Think of what could happen to them in our care. We could never keep them under surveillance at all times.”

“But…”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock uttered. “He took you. Kidnapped you. Easily. So, easily, John. You’re a grown man. With military training. Yet he got you. In fact, you’ve been taken twice.”

John frowned with a glare, “Sherlock—”

Sherlock tilted his head and laughed without humour, “And let’s not forget that the man took a little boy hostage, threatening to blow him up with explosives unless I solved a puzzle for him, played a game. I would have thought that little titbit would be lodged so deep in that small brain of yours, that you’d never be able to forget it; seeing as how much it affected you I’m surprised you haven’t once thought back on it,” he sneered, ignoring how his body seized up and his chest burned. “Think of your own children stuck in the middle of something like that, John. Your children strapped to bombs. Your children taken from their beds at night. Think of it. Because he would do it, John. He would take them. Possibly kill them. Without remorse. Just to watch us “dance.””

Shaking his head roughly, John strode over to Sherlock, “That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know that!” Sherlock seethed, finally looking at John. “And if it isn’t him, it’ll be someone else. You really think we can live here, with two children when we live the lives that we do?”

“Yes,” John answered shortly, staring up into Sherlock’s eyes stubbornly.

“Then you’re even more of an idiot than I thought,” Sherlock replied in a monotone and ended the conversation by shutting himself away in the bathroom again. 

Leaning against the door, Sherlock locked it loudly with a deft twist of his fingers when John started towards him, and slid down to sit on the floor, covering the curve of his middle with one hand and shaking with silent sobs that drenched his face with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yes. So, our boys are indeed just going in circles, and I know it must be frustrating to read and you might think they should just choose already, but I sort of think, personally, that they would keep going like this. Keep bringing it up and then dismissing it, and then changing their minds over and over and over again. Adoption is...well, it's a big thing. I don't think it should be taken or talked about lightly, and I think that most people who go through it, probably do it in much the same way as these two are. It's like a never ending bout of what ifs and maybes and fear and doubt and...everything else.
> 
> Adoption will be talked about again. And again. And...yes, probably again. This is a hard time on them both (and I hope it shows) and they don't know what to do or think or say.
> 
> Anyway, let me know your feedback. Let me know if you liked it and whatnot! 
> 
> P.S. I apologise for any spelling mistakes and that. I'm very tired.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first *ANGST ALERT*
> 
> I'm going to be apologising a lot for this story and it's chapters I reckon -- It takes so long for me to write them, I know! But please know that I spend a great deal of time on them and I will not give up or leave this story behind. No matter how long it takes me, I love this story too much. I have put a lot of effort into it, and I hope it shows. 
> 
> And not only has writer's block crept up a lot recently, but the researching is taking it out of me a little. I thank you all for your patience with this. I love you all and I really appreciate all you do and say!
> 
> In addition, in this, as I'm twisting this story to the series timeline (sort of, dates may be off as I'm using John's blog as a guide) some things are/become difficult - I may go back and edit at some point, because it didn't start off being intertwined with the series, but then it just evolved, as stories do.  
> I bring this up because, in this chapter, I mention how long John and Sherlock have known each other, which I estimated, so it's not 100%, so please don't take what I put as completely correct.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. I spent so long writing this, I hope you like it. It's currently 4am and my eyes hurt!

Mycroft, who stood calmly before the fireplace, turned at John’s entrance and the look he shot John was both impassive and extremely pitying all at once, his manicured hands folded at his back and half curled. There were a few files piled neatly on the coffee table, one of them wonky, the plastic slips inside askew, and several of them peeking out from the top with a white glimmer of paper and an edge of a photograph. Mrs Hudson was standing near Sherlock’s chair, her hands clenched in front of her and her eyes wet and sad; she looked overly tired and despondent, and when he locked gazes with her John felt sick to his stomach, because he knew that look, he’d seen the same look staring back at him from his own reflection more times than he could count. It was a look of dejection and defeat. John stared at her unblinkingly for a long second, the moment seeming to drag as he noticed the damp handkerchief tucked up the arm of her blouse, and the short frayed thread stuck to the nail of her right index finger. 

Sherlock was perched on his chair clothed in his loose pyjama bottoms and wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown, another one of the folders in his lap. His face was blank, his eyes unfocused but avidly fixated to the contents of the folder, and his long, pale fingers were carelessly wrapped around one of the plastic sleeves, about to turn it over. He remained unmoving until John took two shaky steps further into the room, and then he went on as if nothing had happened, nonchalantly flicking through the plastic sleeves with a bored sort of look about him. 

A tray of untouched tea and biscuits had been put down a few inches away from the folders, and John stared at the murky top layer of cold tea in one cup until he was sure he wouldn’t be sick or worse.

“Oh, John…” Mrs Hudson started but was cut off as Sherlock snapped the folder he had shut loudly and stood up. John eyed the careful way Sherlock moved, picking up on the slight wince at the corner of his mouth as he pushed to his feet.

Through the thin layer of his tied dressing gown John could make out the delicate curve of his stomach and felt his throat close on the way it softened the look of Sherlock’s middle, hiding his abdominal muscles and faintly distorting the shape of his navel. One quick glance at the calendar reminded John that Sherlock was fifteen weeks and he felt his eyes sting as he recalled that it was around that time when the babies would begin to frequently get the hiccups, soundless little movements and exercises, which worked and readied the throat muscles to aid the babies’ ability to breathe once they were born.

“Finally,” Sherlock said curtly and held out the binder in his outstretched hand, looking at Mycroft instead of at John. 

Mycroft glanced between them and then settled on John with a flickering smile when John narrowed his gaze on Sherlock and clenched his fists so hard his fingernails bit deeply into his palms, “Folders of potential families. I took the liberty of gathering a wide array of suitable parents, which is why there are several binders – Although, Sherlock has narrowed it down to one.” Mycroft informed softly, tipping his chin down to regard John from his brow. “I realise that this might seem quite sudden—”

“You think?” John scoffed snappily, feeling anger flare up his neck and across his chest, making it hard to breathe and see clearly. “Sherlock. A word, if I may?”

“You may not,” Sherlock replied instantly with some sharpness to his tone, still holding the folder out to John.

Gritting his teeth, John shifted his stance and flexed his fingers, trying to ignore how troubled Mrs Hudson seemed, “We need to talk about this.”

Sherlock dropped the folder to the coffee table abruptly, making Mrs Hudson jump, and turned to finally look at John, “I don’t want them.”

“Bullshit!”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered at John’s outburst, “Still thinking selfishly, I see.”

“Selfish? How is it selfish to want our kids to stay with us?” John exclaimed.

“Why are you so invested in them?” Sherlock suddenly sneered, his face flushing with his anger. “Why are you so blind? – I’ve left it long enough. I know you want them, John, and I’m sorry. I am. I wish…listen, in an ideal world, we wouldn’t be standing here, but we are. We’ve always agreed, even if at times you contradict yourself and change your mind, we have still continually agreed it would be for the best – for everyone involved – if they were given to a loving home—”

John shook his head but turned his back on Sherlock and paced shortly, raking a hand through his hair, “They aren’t dogs! It’s not like we’re giving away puppies because we can’t look after them! I…I can’t do this. Can’t you see, I can’t do this?” John murmured loudly, throwing up his arms. “I keep thinking about it – have always thought about it – because, yes, yes, in some aspects it would be for the best. I know this and you certainly know this. This flat is…is hardly made out to be a family home and…and yes, our lives are dangerous, this entire situation is bloody dangerous, and God knows what we would be like as parents! But…but I can’t help but seesaw between my heart and my brain, Sherlock! As a doctor, this is as fascinating as it is stupid. This is impossible! Improbable! I’ve wanted children, I have, and then—”

“We’re not having the same argument, the same discussion, over and over and over again, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “For once stop thinking about yourself and think about what’s right.”

“What’s right? What’s bloody right?” John repeated, laughing hard and humourlessly. “What would you know about what’s right, Sherlock? This is all your fault to begin with! All because you wanted to test a theory, to try out a new and exciting experiment on yourself! You stole from me, went behind my back, and then was stupid enough, negligent enough, to forget, to get distracted!—You created those two lives within you. You did it, willingly. You were perfectly fine about starting life for an experiment to then flush it when you were done, but then you went and forgot, and now, as you’ve rightly pointed out, here we are! Have you ever thought about why you couldn’t face terminating the pregnancy at the start of this mess? Huh? Ever wondered why you constantly cry, why you’ve allowed them to get to this stage without changing your mind and doing away with them? It would have been simpler, would it not have been? To destroy them at an earlier stage, rather then let them grow and develop, to see them mature, to then just dump them aside? Christ, this is torture for me, why isn’t it for you?”

“John…” Mrs Hudson mumbled gently, biting her lip in indecision, seeming torn between comforting Sherlock and agreeing with John. 

John spared her a glance and then looked back at Sherlock, tracking an errant tear as it smeared down Sherlock’s otherwise expressionless face, “You want them as much as I do,” John whispered, hating himself for feeling guilty at the wetness on Sherlock’s face and the look in Mycroft’s eyes. “And you’re scared, I get that, I understand. I know I’ve said all this before and…and to be honest, I’ll say it all again, because I just… I want—”

“Stop,” Sherlock said abruptly. 

John frowned up at him, “But Sherlock—”

“This is the best course of action,” Sherlock murmured quietly. “I know it’s my fault. I know where the blame lies. Everything I’ve done has been…wrong. – I was wrong to perform the experiment. I was wrong to take from you without your knowledge. I was wrong to allow myself to get distracted. I was wrong for not terminating when I first knew the truth. I have been wrong to put my life and…your children’s’ lives, at risk time and time again. I was wrong to let you think, even for a moment, that you would be able to keep them here with us. And I was wrong for not talking about everything way in advance, so all this, and everything leading up to this point, would have been bypassed—So, let me do something right. This is right John.”

With a sigh, John clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, “Sherlock…you can’t just say all that and expect me to—”

“Mycroft has tediously looked into the backgrounds of each and every family. They all check out. They are all good people, whom live in good areas,” Sherlock continued in a low tone. “And…there is always the option of being with them, yourself. Mycroft will make sure you have everything you need.”

“No.”

“I’m not changing my mind, John,” Sherlock told him. “I… will carry them to term, and then that’s it. I want nothing to do with them. I don’t even want to see them when they’re born – if you want to, you can. I shan’t stop you. They’re your children after all—”

“They’re our children!” John corrected forcefully. “They are your children too. They might have your eyes, or your hair, or your inability to understand basic human emotion!”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, “You know it’s for the best, John.”

“Stop saying that,” John shouted. “Just…stop. God…I…I know. I know. I’ve…always known, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting them, nor from thinking that maybe we’re both wrong! Maybe everyone is wrong!—They’re our children! I want them here, with us. I know it’s weird to hear it and it’s even weirder to say it aloud, never mind think it numerous times a day, but it’s the truth, it’s a fact. They belong to the both of us. And I don’t want to give them up, even if I should.”

“Look through the folders. My mind is made up. It’s time you do the same,” Sherlock said after a long moment of tense silence, and then left the room, weaving out of reach of John’s outstretched hand without looking at him.

John watched him go, feeling flashes of hot anger and cold rejection in a winding swirl that only increased in vigour the longer he stared at the direction Sherlock had disappeared to. Mycroft shifted gently in John’s peripheral and John inhaled deeply, straightening his shoulders.

“You agree with him,” John muttered, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, answering anyway. “However, I am not entirely happy about it at the same time – No matter how it happened, they are a part of my family after all.”

John turned to face him and frowned, “So why don’t you convince him to—?”

“Because, as I said, I do agree with him. Rationally, this is the right move, the realistic path for you both, now that termination is no longer available,” Mycroft said with a soft shrug of his shoulders, not seeming put off with the conversation. “Sherlock is not the type to settle down, John. He will not give up his work, not yet. He’d be old and grey before he retires to the countryside, and even then...”

“Oh, it’s all so terrible,” Mrs Hudson mumbled as she worried her hands and shook her head, moving to John’s side. “I tried talking him around, John, but he was having none of it—I know this place isn’t much but…I’m sure we would have been able to make it work.”

Nodding with a quiet sigh, John lowered his gaze to the files, “…You’ll have constant surveillance on whomever I choose, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied and lifted his chin. “You will have continuous updates concerning the upbringing and wellbeing of the children whenever and however you wish – Or you can be there, John. I have a place picked out already, just in case you change your mind.” 

“And leave Sherlock alone? I couldn’t do that—And they deserve both of us,” John uttered as he rubbed his temples and then sadly reached for the folder Sherlock had offered. 

“John, just because you would be living out of the flat does not mean you’d be leaving Sherlock alone,” Mycroft said patiently as he watched John slowly gaze through each sleeve, attention faintly glazed as he looked over the information presented. “Did you honestly expect to live here with my brother forever?”

John lifted his eyes, “Kind of, yeah,” he muttered until Mycroft arched an eyebrow and John exhaled in a rush of annoyed breath, lowering his gaze. “I don’t know. He’s like an extra limb I never knew I had until—Wait a minute, most of these couples are in the local area.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. 

“…Sherlock did that for me, didn’t he?” John mumbled as he eyed one of the possible families, half wondering if their children would fit in with them. The woman in the photo was pleasantly attractive, with dark auburn hair and big, green eyes; and the man at her side was handsome and athletic looking, his skin tanned and hair almost pitch-black. 

Mycroft inclined his head very slightly and then made toward the door, “I’ll leave all the folders with you and come back for them another time. Give my brother some space, if only for the day,” he said, his tone a tad stern and his eyes hard as he smiled politely to both Mrs Hudson and John before leaving. “Good day to you both.”

Mrs Hudson dawdled and worried at John’s side until the front door clicked closed, and then grasped to John’s forearm, clinging to his sleeve, “If we… both spoke to him, then maybe—”

“I think…” John mumbled, cutting off Mrs Hudson gently and looking at another family, another couple, the photograph of a woman and man in their late twenties glossy and new and daunting. “I…need to take a moment.”

Mrs Hudson nodded sadly and touched a soft, delicate hand to John’s shoulder, squeezing him fondly once, and then taking the tray with her as she left the living room. John waited for the door to her flat to close before he walked to the other folders and picked them up, carrying them all in his arms to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He hesitated long enough to make his legs ache and for his arms to cramp, and then turned away with a sigh and walked to his own room instead, hoping to take a sort of refuge from everyone and everything by being surrounded by his own belongings, instead of the shared and mixed items of the living room and kitchen.

The very first ultrasound image greeted him on his steps into the bedroom and John faltered and almost ran back out at the sight of it. He sighed and moved to sit down on the end of his bed, dumping the folders aside heavily and without care. What had happened in the living room seemed somehow unreal and too real, instantaneously. Sherlock’s words and expression and the look of his distended midriff, swam and spun in John’s mind as he idly shifted through photos and information of strangers, strangers he immediately disliked. It was hard to think of any of them posing as the parents of John and Sherlock’s children, and extremely difficult to think of any of them being able to watch them grow up and be a part of their lives, whilst John could only do so through images, words and video feed.

Some part of John had known that Sherlock would ultimately choose what he had, in fact, some part of him had already chosen that path himself from the start, just like Sherlock had mentioned; however, after seeing them grow and having them incessantly on his mind and being in constant panic over their lives, and the life of his best friend, John felt closer to them and more connected to them than he ever thought possible. John had known he would have enjoyed being a dad and knew about the instinctive parental connection that a great number of expectant parents went through, but had not known quite the extent of affection and emotion that would affect him, and that would be attached and spent into the two small lives growing inside his flatmate. John felt like he was suffocating whenever he thought of them either dying due to complications or having to give them up once they were born, and it only got worse as time had gone on; as did the need to check on them and see them moving and stretching and alive.

He often wondered if the reason he was so in love with them was because they were half of someone he had come to truly care for, but he couldn’t quite answer it whenever he questioned himself. Would he have loved them no matter what? If he had found out he was going to be a dad with a woman, instead of with Sherlock, would he have been equally as devoted to their lives? Although he felt horrid for thinking it, John didn’t exactly know if he would have been; sure the delight at being a father would have still been present, but would he have been as interested in their health and growth and looks and future if he had instead been in a relationship with a woman who was expecting their offspring? John honestly could not say. The relationship with Sherlock was nothing more than a deep-seated friendship, and yet through it he was going to have children, children he felt such affection for that thinking about them being taken away from him made the entirety of his chest ache until he could hardly breathe properly.

Sherlock and John had known each other for about seven months, probably a little longer, and although it felt even longer than that to John, even though it felt like John had always been Sherlock’s friend because of how quickly and easily they’d clicked when they had met, it was still perhaps too fast to be having an impossible family with him, and John understood that, he did; nevertheless he could not think of the children being anywhere else but in his arms, anywhere but apart of John and Sherlock’s lives. Of course, it also hadn’t escaped his notice that such a thing had been sprung on him quite suddenly, and therefore his emotions and feelings were sporadic and hyped up and twirling. Was that the reason for John’s increased flare of need to see it through to the end, to see and hold and keep his children? John felt like he was going insane the longer he pondered his emotional and mental state, and the longer he thought of the future, of the dismal future where his children may die or be snatched from his hands.

John threw the file he’d been looking through on the floor at his feet and picked up the next one. The families, the couples, were all young and talented and nice and deserving, and John hated each and every one of them. Mycroft’s words about having somewhere for John and the children to go circled in his head as he scanned the sixth photograph in the current folder; the thought of living away from Sherlock with the babies had cropped up in John’s mind more than once over the past few weeks, and to know that he wouldn’t need to worry about finding a place himself, was secretly a huge relief for him, but at the same time, John couldn’t see himself anywhere but at 221B and didn’t want to leave Sherlock’s company if he could help it. Whether to give the babies up to live a life away from their real parents, or to keep them and be separate from Sherlock and a single parent rising two children, were two very tough and intimidating things to consider; not to mention the hint of danger that could befall them if anyone found out how they came to be and who their real parents were. 

At first, John had honestly thought it would be easier to choose, because all he had to do was think of the children, think which would best suit them, as they were the “victims” in everything, they were innocent in all of it and deserved better; but it was easier said than done, much easier. John had indeed known that it might be the best for the children if they lived a life away, though he couldn’t let them go, he just couldn’t. Everything and everyone, was equally wrong and right. Who knew what the future held? What if they were safer at the flat? Who was to know which path would be the absolute correct and safest one?

Glaring, John shook all thoughts aside. He was getting nowhere, merely thinking himself in circles again, forever contradicting himself over and over, and so he forced himself to take a closer look at the folders, at the people clipped inside them, and tried to think of it all with a detached and clinical mind-set. John opened the first folder he’d chucked away, just to double-check, but only closed it and tossed it aside once more, returning to the one in his hands. 

After a minute of staring, John realised that it was the one Sherlock had given him, and John regarded it for a moment, gripping it until the edges cut into his fingers and the pressure of his grasp turned his knuckles white. He wished Sherlock had talked to him about it all again first. It was obvious they would have gotten nowhere, but at least it wouldn’t have come as such a horrid surprise. John hadn’t forgotten their last conversation on the subject, which had turned quickly and annoyingly into an argument, and recalled what Sherlock had said and how Sherlock had looked, it had been obvious Sherlock was not going to change his mind. Still, John had hoped that they would speak again before anything was put into motion. 

One particular couple looked unexpectedly familiar to John as he breezed through the pages, and it was only after a few minutes of hard thinking that he recognised and remembered who they were; he had met them before, had treated them. They had been trying to conceive for several years without luck; John had only met them once, had taken them into his office when the doctor they had booked to visit was not available. John remembered the look in the woman’s eyes, the solemn sadness that came with being denied something precious and desired. Her husband had looked no better. They had smiled tightly at every word John said, their eyes fixated on his hands, his desk, a point over his shoulder; never once had they looked at him. John wondered if he’d look more or less the same once the babies were gone. Would he have the same dark bags under his eyes? The same disheartened expression on his face? 

They had been decent enough people, and seeing them suffer had tugged at John’s heart, but he didn’t want them anywhere near his children and was slightly frustrated that they were included in the folder to begin with. Although he had felt for the couple, he had seen their medical history and had asked them questions that he suddenly and intensely recollected the answers to. No, he would not give his children over to them. He didn’t want to give his children over to anyone.

John lifted his eyes to stare into the middle distance and tried desperately not to lunge for the ultrasound photo with trembling hands.

***

John didn’t realise how much time had past until Sherlock came gently knocking at his door, still wearing his dressing gown. As he entered, Sherlock flitted his eyes over the binders, the one in John’s lap specially, and then dropped his gaze to the floor. John hated him and pitied him in that moment, and a huge part of John wanted to kick him out of his room, and wanted to leave the flat altogether to let Sherlock cope alone. What was the point in it all? Once the babies were taken, it would be as if they were dead anyway, even if John could get regular updates, once they were out of sight, out of his hands, they would grow to be strangers to him and little by little, he’d see them as such; see them as just someone else’s children. 

John quickly turned his attention back on Sherlock, not liking where his mind was drifting, and a whole manner of emotions surged through him when he picked out the posture of Sherlock’s shoulders and hips, and how Sherlock held himself overall. He wanted to both shake Sherlock with gripping fingers, and gather him up in concern, to sooth him, because Sherlock was in such obvious discomfort; almost so much so that it was practically a little too blatantly obvious that he was in discomfort, and John speculated for a brief second if Sherlock was in fact actually portraying it on purpose to distract and change John’s anger, and play off his caring nature. In addition, Sherlock was acting suspiciously submissive and meek, keeping to the corner of the room and making sure he looked as small and pathetic as he could manage with his tall and lanky frame; and once John looked closer still, he could see that Sherlock’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. John stared at him intently with what he knew was a fierce, unfriendly look and waited for several heartbeats of heavy silence, before he broke it with a deep, thick, shaky sigh.

“What was that?” he asked, surprised at how level his voice was once he spoke and opting to ignore the subtle change in Sherlock’s pose at his tone.

Sherlock shuffled but his expression hardly wavered, “What?”

“Downstairs?—That was an act, wasn't it? A show. You wouldn't normally say or…do all of that in front of an audience would you?” John questioned, with what he knew was an exaggeratedly suspicious furrow of his brows; he could feel the skin at the bridge of his nose crumple. “I don’t know if it was for Mrs Hudson’s benefit, for mine, or for all of the above, but it just seemed a bit off. – And I know you well enough now to know that sometimes…sometimes you do and say things, especially in front of others, for a reason. A cryptic, stupid, unbelievable, and impossible to understand reason, but a reason nonetheless.”

“It was both.”

John blinked slowly, patiently, “Both?”

With a sigh, Sherlock moved further into John’s bedroom, walking toward the bed and lingering just a few steps away, “Both a show and not one…”

“What does that even mean?” John complained sharply, thumping his hand down on his knee and the open side of the folder in his lap, oddly calmed by the resulting and resounding slap.

“…Have you chosen a family yet?” Sherlock intoned instead of answering John’s question.

The binder felt suddenly ten times as heavy against John’s thighs, “I…no. No. I should but…”

“You don't have to - John, you can always have them yourself. Live close by. Mycroft would arrange it and we would…see each other and…”

John snapped his gaze up, “Stop.”

“That folder you have in your hands at the moment is the best amongst them. The one I chose,” Sherlock murmured after John’s angered and laboured breathing had slowed. 

“Yeah? Why’s that then?”

“You know why. They’re all a lot closer. I thought you'd want to…see them more. This will allow that,” Sherlock explained with a faint shrug of one shoulder. “I realise it might be difficult at first, because you might see them passing by on the street but I…had assumed that you’d rather that than to have them somewhere not within reach.”

“I believe you did it for both of us,” John said, putting the binder behind him as he stood. “Because I’ll not be the only one to see them passing by on the street, Sherlock. You’ll know it’s them. With just one glance, you’ll know. – You might have thought of me at first I suppose, but in the back of your mind, you want that too. In fact, you probably don’t want to give them up at all—”

Sherlock’s face sharpened with anger in an instant, so sudden that John blinked, slightly taken back, “We are not going through this again. This ends today, John. – You will pick a family or you will choose to be a single parent, and that will be that.”

“What do you want me to do?” John asked blankly. “What would be ideal for you? It seems to me like you want me to go away with them on my own. Do you want me to leave? Is that it?”

“Of course not!” Sherlock exclaimed and turned to go, only to spin back around with a sweep of his arm. “You really think we can just have a couple of kids running about this place, don’t you? What is this fantasy world that you think you live in, John?”

“I know it’ll be hard and dangerous, Sherlock,” John said with a dark glare. “I’ve thought about this just as much and just as hard as you have—”

“I very much doubt it,” Sherlock snorted humourlessly with a sneering sort of expression on his face. “If you had, then you’d know that I’ve picked the correct course of action.”

John got up into Sherlock’s personal space suddenly, backing him into his wardrobe with a few brisk steps, “Excuse me for not having complete faith in the man who knocked himself up and then failed, many, many times, to put things right again! Not to mention the fact that you endangered yourself and our children for your own sick and twisted means of entertainment! – How is what I want any more dangerous and stupid than what you’ve already done? You’ve almost gotten them killed alongside yourself far too many times already!”

“They might die anyway!” Sherlock shouted in a snarl, pushing back into John’s space until John leaned aside. “I could endanger them by just popping down to the bloody shops!”

John shoved Sherlock in the shoulder hard, “The chance of getting hit by a bus or randomly dropping down dead from some natural force, drops considerably when you’re standing before some lunatic with a fucking gun! Everything changes when you’re responsible for other lives, Sherlock! Do you think so little of them that you’d rather pick a mystery, a murder, a deranged gunman, over your own children?”

“Yes!” Sherlock yelled in response, his expression stuttering and then blanking as what he’d just said echoed back at him dully. He turned and fell back against a wall, sliding down it to sit uncomfortably on the floor with his knees up and his face staring ahead. 

John stared down at him and then moved away to stroll to the window silently, “So, what…you think you’re saving them from you then, do you?” he muttered. “By sending them off?”

“Maybe I am,” Sherlock whispered without blinking or moving. “I obviously don’t care—”

“That’s not bloody true,” John told him, gripping the windowsill roughly before moving back to Sherlock and crouching beside him. “If I…actually, really, vehemently thought that, then I wouldn’t be your friend. I wouldn’t be here with you, or here at all. And neither would everyone you’ve ever saved – And I don’t just mean physically saved by solving some silly crime. As you saved me by just…meeting me.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock exhaled, and hung his head in silence for a long moment. “You can’t say all the things you said before only to take them back with a few choice words now, like you didn’t mean them. You meant them. Passionately.”

“Yeah. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” John sighed, rubbing his forehead and eyes and dropping to sit down pushed up beside Sherlock’s side. “But I mean other things too. When I say that you saved me and…look, everyone has pros and cons, yeah? You might be an arrogant arse a lot of the time, but you’re also a good man, Sherlock. You’re a walking contradiction, we all are. You say you don’t care, but you do care, and I just…I would have liked it if we’d done this entire argument beforehand, so it wasn’t such a—”

“We did. We seem to constantly have this argument – Now, will you decide on a family, a couple, today?” Sherlock interrupted. 

“No. Probably not,” John replied curtly, glaring at the folders.

“You should. You need to do it at some point, and the sooner the better,” Sherlock said, avoiding his gaze and stretching out his legs with a wince, his hips trembling a little in a painful spasm. 

John sighed and watched him from the corner of his eyes, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said in a monotone, dropping one of his hands close enough to his stomach to signal his apparent agony. 

“You’re obviously not,” John muttered and shifted around to face Sherlock better. “Where’s the pain?”

Sherlock stubbornly refused to answer him for a long moment, but John crossed his arms and waited, staring at Sherlock until he relented, “My hips, back, and stomach – Muscle ache mainly, I think.”

“Taken anything for it?” John asked idly as he reached forward, seeking permission with a look and a slight motion of his hand, and then pressing gently once it was granted, feeling out all the sore spots with the ends of his fingers and watching Sherlock try and hold back the involuntary flinches. Sherlock’s muscles were in knots and the warm curve of his stomach quivered under his touch as Sherlock sat forward with a barely hidden grimace. 

“Are you feeling sick at all?” John queried. He still had not put on much weight and John squinted at Sherlock’s face in concern, cupping his face and checking his temperature, pulse and pupils before he moved back to his middle, pushing and cupping the bump.

“I might have a bit of a cold,” Sherlock said under his breath when John repeated the question with more bite. “It’s normal. My immune system is merely impaired by the pregnancy.”

John nodded, “Yes, I know – Is the vomiting and fatigue any better?”

“No.”

“And the pain? – You didn’t answer if you’ve taken anything for it—?”

“No.”

“What about your chest? Any new tenderness or extra discomfort?” John murmured, already parting the dressing gown to examine Sherlock’s nipples. “Any secretions?”

Sherlock sighed, and his breath hitched when John pushed down on his areola, “No.”

“Sherlock, you need to tell me if—”

“I said, no,” Sherlock snapped and slapped John’s hand away so roughly that the resulting sting from the contact tingled up John’s wrist. “Stop touching me.”

Sherlock pushed John physically away when he lingered for too long at a close and inspecting distance, and got to his feet, clutching his dressing gown closed as he headed for the door. He eyed the folders and hesitated at the doorway, tapping the doorframe awkwardly as John pushed up from the floor as well. Sherlock’s body was taut with resentment but it dissolved as he pushed a hand through his curls and closed his eyes.

“I’ll think about it, and look back through the folders later,” John mumbled. “You can’t rush this, Sherlock. Can’t rush me—”

“There is a deadline to this, you know,” Sherlock told him offhandedly. “And we both saw this coming – It was never a surprise, and you can’t pretend otherwise. You knew as well as I did that this would happen. Keeping them here was only a fantasy of yours, a dream. It is illogical and wrong.”

“Piss off,” John retorted, and walked over to throw the folders down at Sherlock’s feet. “What if I choose none of them then? What if I decide to leave like you suggested and live off on my own somewhere with them? Would you even care? Would you visit? Or would you avoid me like the plague and pay no part or interest in their lives?—Do your parents still not know about this?”

“We are not handing them off to my parents, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sherlock glared, kicking the folders away. “Nor are we telling them. At all. Do you hear me?”

“Why? Because they’d back me and not you? And tell you how stupid you’ve been?” John asked. “I assume they’d be a little peeved that you’ve kept such a secret from them for as long as you have as well, huh?”

Sherlock marched over intimidatingly, “This does not concern them, or anyone else! This is between you and me. I don’t want anyone else to know about this. Stamford, my brother, and Mrs Hudson is enough!”

“Oh? Ashamed are we? – Your parents have to be told at some point, Sherlock. They have the right to know that they have grandchildren, for God sake! And if the children will be safer with them, why can’t we ask if they’d like to look after them for a bit? Why do we have to give them away? Why do they have to be taken when we have so many other options that we have yet to consider?”

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter, “Other options? Are you sick in the head? There are a scarce number of options, John. We do not have the luxury of—!”

“And I wonder who’s fault that is?” John asked sarcastically, and peevishly prodded Sherlock in his chest. “You go on about doing what’s “right” for the unborn babies, yet here you are, dismissing options to keep them safe, to keep them closer to home than they would be if a couple of strangers just up and took them away!”

“My parents have already raised their children, they’ve done their jobs; I shall not burden them with—!”

“I doubt they’d see it as a bloody burden, Sherlock!” John cut in.

Sherlock sneered, “You don’t know them.”

John glared furiously and threw up his hands, “Fine. We have friends, friends whom I know would help in any way that they could if given the chance. Lestrade would be a great help to us! He’s—”

“It would be best if they had nothing to do with us at all, this includes our friends and family,” Sherlock cut in, his lips pale and trembling as he narrowed his eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you? – Do you know what bad people do when they want to hurt you, John? They go after loved ones, those that we know and care about, to try and find a weak spot, an Achilles heel – Not only is it best for us and the unborn if they went to a new family because of how they came about or because of who we are, but also because if anyone got wind of this, then they would be our weaknesses, and hiding them in the arms of family and “friends” would not solve the matter!”

“You speak such utter bullshit!” John growled. “You don’t know the future, Sherlock! How can you possibly know all this for certain? – Wouldn’t our family and friends have been used and in danger before now, if what you say is true? If Moriarty, or any other big bad, wanted to hurt us by going through the people we knew and loved, then they would have done it already!”

Sherlock grasped his hair and tugged, “It’s the possibility, John! It’s the fact that they could, at any time! Would you want that? – Do you not see that this is right, that this ensures that they can go off and live whatever lives they want in ignorant bliss?”

John grabbed his wrists and wrenched his hands down, “We can keep them safe, Sherlock – You’re scared. Scared of…everything, and confused and…and overwhelmed, I know, all right? Christ, I bloody know! Everything is crazy! But I honestly believe that—”

“I don’t want them!”

“…Yes, you do.”

“No,” Sherlock hissed. “I don’t want them, they are a liability! Don’t you see that? No matter how you look at it, they are a problem! For both of us! If people knew about them, their lives as well as ours would be hell on earth.”

“You love and care and want them as much as I do,” John whispered. “I’m not the only one going round in circles with my feelings, my thoughts and my words – You are doing it. You’re doing it without realising it sometimes. You’re mean and cold one moment and then you say something concerning their safety and happiness the next, and you…get this look on your face. – You can’t distance yourself from them. No matter how much you try, you can’t—”

“Shut up!” Sherlock bellowed so loud that Mrs Hudson appeared in the tensed minute that followed and rushed into the bedroom with wild eyes. Sherlock was breathing hard, his face white and his eyes red, tears slowly spilling down his face uncontrollably. Sherlock let them, hardly blinking, and then turned abruptly on his heel and left the room to retch and vomit near the stairs; riled and stressed to the point of being physically ill.

John and Mrs Hudson hurried after him together in a scrambling of limbs, and John grabbed Sherlock around his hunching shoulders upon seeing his stooped figure, lifting him up and away from the sick now splattered across the floor. Sherlock had vomited into his trembling cupped hands and was shaking all over, his throat and face a bulging red as he heaved again and tried in vain to stop it, making an anguished, gargling sound in the back of his throat as he threw up all over his hands once more. Mrs Hudson rubbed his back and pushed his hair back from his face, hushing his chocked and inaudible gasping words with soft whispers and motherly kisses to his temple.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom,” John breathed, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt and exhaustion. “Come on… It’s okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock fumbled as both Mrs Hudson and John led him to the toilet, where he promptly heaved again and fell hard to his knees. John left Mrs Hudson to clean Sherlock up after he could no longer deal with her fretful face and compassionate eyes, and went to clean up the sick from the floor quickly.

When he returned, Sherlock was lying curled up on his bed with Mrs Hudson stroking her fingers through his hair, “…You all right?” he asked gently, getting no answer in return as Sherlock stared with half-lidded eyes at Mrs Hudson’s knees, one of his hands fiddling with the edge of her skirt absentmindedly. “Look—”

“John,” Mrs Hudson said lowly as she interrupted him with a tight smile, “I think you’ve both done enough…talking for today, don’t you?”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was still staring at her knees and white as a sheet, and nodded, “Yeah…yeah. Okay, but…Sherlock, if the… muscle pain, and any other aches and pains, get any worse, come straight to me—Also try to get into the habit of sleeping on your left side, if you can, as it’s apparently best. It can help with the flow of blood and nutrients to the placenta and helps to reduce any sort of swelling in your ankles, feet or hands.”

“John—” Mrs Hudson sighed, shaking her head and slightly covering Sherlock’s ear with her hand as she ran her fingers through a tangle of curls. 

“And you need to drink more. At least eight glasses of fluids a day,” John advised, swallowing when Mrs Hudson motioned for him to go. “We’ll…talk more later. I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to…well…I’ll just see you later.”

Mrs Hudson turned to look down at Sherlock and John watched as he allowed her to roll him over to his left side and rub his back, her fragile looking hand making wide and soft sweeps of his lower back, and kneading the muscles of his shoulders and hips. John smiled warmly for a brief second and then shut the door behind him, rubbing at the cold feeling of self-reproach in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise a lot of you are angry with Sherlock, and so you should be, but do not worry, things will turn out better and he doesn't exactly mean everything he says - if he didn't care about the babies, he would have gotten rid of them by now. You lovelies know what Sherlock is like. He wears some silly impassive mask a lot of the time and says a lot of shitty things.
> 
> The next chapter is from his point of view so you will see how confused he still is with everything. He's still riddled with hormones and not coping too well. -- He is also quite ashamed of himself, and so that's why he is afraid of letting his parents know. The thought of his parents knowing and all that John said, was what made him physically unwell haha
> 
> Sorry that Sherlock is still being stubborn and silly! He is right that the children could be in danger being with them, but John is also in the right about looking for different options rather than giving their children to strangers. (Strangers that John automatically hates haha)
> 
> Feedback fuels me!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about a way to have those reading this to be more involved – To give you a way to keep better tabs on the progression of the story because it takes me such a while to get these chapters written and I feel terrible for keeping you all waiting.  
> Here is my tumblr that is related to my fanfiction writing: [Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If I need to, I will post questions about the story so you can comment and help me along with it. I may ask for suggestions/advice/opinions and want your input is on certain decisions that I will come across during the story's timeline.  
> Also, you can ask me questions and try and keep me going - So if you think I may have forgotten about it or you fear I've lost interest, you can ask me directly instead of leaving a comment on the story asking me (however, I will tell you all now, as I've told you all before I'm sure, I will not be giving up on this story).  
> Speaking about things can help me a lot, which is why I really like comments and feedback, and, as silly as it sounds, the more comments I have, the more inspired and confident I feel about a story.
> 
> Also, ignoring the research and “medical” side of this story, I struggle with mixing it with the series because of trying to basically rewrite a lot of the episodes to include Sherlock in his new “condition,” so I’m open for thoughts about that.
> 
> For example, as all of you might notice, we are coming up to "A Scandal in Belgravia," and this will have to be rewritten and changed to fit with Sherlock being pregnant, which means a lot of time taken to think it out (which is what I'm currently already doing) 
> 
> I will also be going back through this to edit things or correct spelling and grammar at a later date (and I may add images/illustrations too), so keep an eye out for all of that.
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter! (Please enjoy it, I spent so long writing this haha <3 )

Sherlock stared at the folders on the desk where John had dumped them after another argument before he’d then left the flat for some air earlier, and gathered the pile up with a sudden growl, striding to the fireplace where he threw them down onto the charred wood with a noisy flutter of the plastic sleeves. Some of the photos slipped free and two smiling faces peeked up at Sherlock, with overly white, straight teeth and young faces, their eyes seemingly locked onto his face. Breathing hard, Sherlock scowled at them and then fumbled around the mantelpiece, knocking things to the carpet as he searched for the matches and span on the spot to then dive for the desk drawers. One drawer clattered loudly to the floor, catching Sherlock’s bare foot, but the sudden pain did nothing to distract Sherlock as he made a mess of the living room and upturned drawer after drawer, hurling things over his shoulder and then sweeping his arm across the desk in a surge of anger. Turning around, Sherlock searched the bookshelf, smacking books aside and throwing a select few at the wall for no other reason than to hear and see the covers bend and the pages flurry. Reaching for a particularly large tome with infuriated intent, Sherlock paused when something caught his eye, and then dropped down to a crouch when he noticed the unassuming matchbox on the ground behind some debris from the fireplace, where he must have unknowingly knocked it.

The weight of his stomach became even more apparent when he stood back up, and Sherlock exhaled through his nose and steadied himself by gripping the edge of the mantel as he glanced down at his middle through the loose sides of his dressing gown and stared at the subtle changes in his body, thankful that there was still no signs of stretch marks on his pale skin and that the bump was still not too obvious. His stomach muscles were faintly throbbing from his brisk actions and he wondered, with a grimace, when and if they would split apart to allow more room for the growing babies to distort and deform his body. 

A sudden movement from within made Sherlock’s heart skip and he swallowed and looked away, gripping the box of matches in his hand until the box crumpled and the edges dug into his palm awkwardly. He had been feeling more and more stronger movement for the last few days, almost positive that it was small fists behind the sensations, and that the babies were punching and kicking him with growing vigour. The current movement was on his right hand side, but Sherlock couldn’t recall if it was Twin A or Twin B that was the route cause, more so when the left side fluttered with movement as well, as if in response to the strong, almost violent activities on the opposite side. The sensations continued for well over two minutes and Sherlock leaned away from the mantel and slapped his hand over his stomach in frustration, rubbing the aching muscles and pushing down with the heel of his palm to massage at first one side and then the other; glaring into the middle distance as the babies squirmed within him.

“Stop it,” He whined lowly, clenching the box of matches a little tighter as he pressed and pushed at his stomach until the sensations slowly ceased. Sherlock dropped his hand and then rubbed his face, peeking through his fingers at the folders in the fireplace with another surge of emotion.

Breathing raggedly, he had only just managed to get one match from inside the now compressed box with rigid and trembling fingers, when Mycroft came seemingly from nowhere and wrenched him around, tugging them from his hands. Sherlock blinked and stared at him, then snarled and tried to take them back, but Mycroft held them out of reach and then threw them aside to gather Sherlock’s hands in his; Sherlock twisted away, shoved Mycroft backward strongly, and then tripped over his own feet as he stepped back and slowly sat down in his chair.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded after Mycroft had smoothed out his suit and retrieved the folders from the fireplace. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and kneaded the back of his neck as he watched, frowning when Mycroft carried them to a suitcase he had brought with him but left at the doorway. “What are you—? You’ve spoken to John, haven’t you?”

Mycroft snapped the case closed, “No.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened and he gripped his armrests, “Then what are you doing?”

“I found an alternative,” Mycroft sighed, and as he turned to face him, Sherlock felt his gut clench. “Obviously you and John both do not—”

“I don’t care!”

Mycroft glanced around at the chaos of the room with a sarcastic smile, “Clearly.”

“I was frustrated,” Sherlock said through his teeth. “There is no getting through to him anymore. He won’t see reason.”

“Hm,” Mycroft exhaled, walking over and setting the suitcase down in John’s empty chair, eyes dropping to Sherlock’s bare feet. “You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glanced down, noticing that the drawer that had fallen on him had taken a slice of skin with it and he was currently oozing blood that was pooling between his toes. Mycroft fetched the first aid kit without asking directions to where it was kept, and handed it over with a roll of his eyes when Sherlock tried to snatch at it. The cut throbbed as Sherlock bent uncomfortably over to treat it, and he tried to ignore the twinges from the ligaments of his sides, pelvis and back, focusing instead on Mycroft’s shoes and trouser legs to try and deduce something, anything, interesting about him, but as ever they were more or less spotless and gave away nothing fascinating enough to keep his attention. The movements in Sherlock’s abdomen started up once more from the odd angle in which he was contorting himself in to clean his foot, and Sherlock pushed his stomach into his thighs with a shaky breath.

“I need to discuss this alternate option with you, but first I must say that, although I don’t agree that the offspring be sent to our parents once they are born,” Mycroft suddenly drawled, shocking Sherlock into stillness in the knowledge that Mycroft had the flat bugged again, “I do agree that we should tell them of the existence of the unborn – or rather, that you should. You cannot keep this from mummy, Sherlock. No matter what happens to John and yourself and your children, you cannot keep this a secret from them. You must tell her and father.”

“What they don’t know, can’t hurt them,” Sherlock muttered cruelly, applying a plaster to the cut clumsily and then sitting up, feeling abruptly dizzy from the movement. He had not eaten or drank anything since breakfast, and he glanced at the clock, then at his knees quickly, hoping that Mycroft had not noticed. “And if you do not remove your little spy equipment, I will—!”

“Sherlock, you must tell them. – You know that John is not going to rest until he’s found a way to be in their lives permanently, as he quite obviously wants nothing more than to have them in his arms, and when that time comes John is not going to deprive them of having grandparents—It is not my place to make you do anything, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly but primly, wandering into the kitchen to pour Sherlock a glass of water, much to his frustration. “I can only hope that you are mature enough to pick the right path and make the right decisions for yourself, John and the children—”

Sherlock pushed the first aid kit aside irritably with his injured foot, and enjoyed the pained distraction it provided, “Which I am doing!”

“You will lose John and any chance of being in the children’s lives if you carry on the way you are going,” Mycroft told him expressively and commenced buttering two pieces of bread. “And you know you will.”

Sherlock shook his head and swallowed down the need to vomit, the movement of the unborn still fluttering in his stomach, “Tell me, which is better, for innocent children; to be kidnapped, injured and/or mocked their entire lives because of a mistake I made; or for them to grow up in a relatively normal family, able to do whatever they want without much fear of danger?”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment, “You realise that it will not save them from everything? From everyone? You cannot know for sure what will happen, or if the truth of their origin will come to light, or anything of that manner. – And there are trails to follow, if one knows where to look, they may be found if someone wants them to be—”

“Trails, that you of all people, can erase, which is one of the many reasons I chose you to assist me in the first place,” Sherlock told him and then stood up. “I realise I cannot see the future, Mycroft, I am not saying that I can, or that what I fear will actually happen, I’m sure I’ve said this before! – I… just want to make sure, as much as I can, that they are protected! Protected from me, from those that may come after me. And if that means giving them up to strangers, then so be it!—”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “I understand your fears—”

“No,” Sherlock exclaimed, pacing shortly before he turned and stormed toward his bedroom. “Get out.”

Mycroft was quick to stop Sherlock with a stern hand on his forearm that Sherlock didn’t immediately shake off, “Both sides have equally important and correct points of reason. Yours and John’s – Yes, they could be in danger, and realistically, if you want them to live a life as close to normal as strictly possible, then giving them to a loving home with a normal, tedious family, is indeed the correct path – However, neither you nor John want to do this, do you? John is not the only one whom does not want to give them up to someone unknown, is he?—And so, if you truly wish for them to be out of harm, and you want to continue work without distraction, then John was right to bring up the option of giving the children to family, which, incidentally, is why I am here—”

“You just said that we shouldn’t send them off – Our mother and father have done enough with looking after and raising us. You really wish this on them? Mother is a very strong and capable woman, but unloading two new born infants on her is—!”

“No. I will take them,” Mycroft suddenly said, letting Sherlock go and straightening to continue making Sherlock a sandwich. “I have the room, and I can keep them moderately safe – You know I can. Not many will know about them nor question me once they do. They will be well looked after. I am the better candidate, perhaps the best, given the limited choices.”

Sherlock turned and regarded Mycroft silently for a long moment, “You? You can’t look after children,” he scoffed gently with a furrowed brow, one of his hands opening and closing near the curve of his stomach. He wanted to instinctively rub and press on his stomach in response to Mycroft gaze, but stopped and rebuffed himself.

“Who said I’d be looking after them all by myself?” Mycroft countered, cutting the crusts off the bread neatly. “I’ve thought about this, for quite some time now – since you first told me to look into families for the children to be apart of, to be exact. I think I am the perfect and best choice, especially given the tension this has created between John and yourself. – John can visit whenever he wishes, at any time of day or night, and will be safe going back and forth between here and there, as I will be providing the transport. Of course, I shall also help with any expenses towards their needs, such as baby clothes, milk and food.”

“What if John wants to—?”

Mycroft sighed sharply, holding out the glass and plate, “John is their father, and so he will be allowed to do anything he wishes. If he chooses, at a later date, to raise them by himself in a quaint little house on the outskirts of London, then I will obviously hand them back over – I have no intention of stopping either of you from being parents. The children deserve to know their real family. They’d be better off, particularly in the concerns of learning. No doubt they shall be just as awkward and curious as you were as a baby and child, something I have a lot of experience in.”

Sherlock glared half-heartedly and returned to his chair, “You’ve changed your tune.”

“My “tune” has been relatively the same, throughout. I never said they shouldn’t know you or John as their real parents,” Mycroft said arrogantly, placing both the glass and the plate nearby once Sherlock did not take them. “I merely agreed that they could indeed be in some sort of peril if they remained here in this flat and were known by the public via unwanted media attention on how you came to have them – It would not be fair on anyone involved. And seeing as you would probably not give up your…antics either, then giving them away was the most reasonable option at the time—However, John had some excellent counter points during your little quarrels, and hearing them further nudged the proposal that I tend to them until such a time where he and you would finally come to some sort of agreement.”

“Why inconvenience me with the folders at all then? Why do that if you weren’t entirely inclined to them in the first place? Why not tell me not to bother?” Sherlock asked, unable to look at his brother for a second as he thought through what Mycroft was suggesting. 

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, it made sense, almost perfect sense. Even if Sherlock thought it could give Mycroft a lot of leverage over him, it was a better idea than anything else, and Sherlock wondered why he had not thought of it himself. It would quell John’s insistent dislike of giving them up to strangers, and it was better than giving them to someone like Lestrade or roping in his parents. Mycroft could keep the babies safe and hidden from the world until John finally decided to leave the flat to raise them on his own, where he would probably grow to resent Sherlock’s lack of interest and keep the fact that Sherlock had anything to do with them to himself. John could make up some mystery mother for them to look up to, give them what they would never have; or better yet, John could meet and marry a woman and raise the children between the two of them. 

“You asked me to do it for you,” Mycroft answered, his voice low and faintly soothing, as if he knew the sudden swirling turmoil inside Sherlock’s head. “And would you have listened to me if I had disagreed with you? – I wasn’t entirely sure of the idea either at first, as I said earlier; I had to think it over, as it needed quite a lot of planning to pull off. I had also hoped that you would, well, grow up in the time it took me to collect the information inside the binders. – You took quite a while to actually get back in touch with me about the families and couples, and so I had thought you and John would perhaps speak further about it and agree to think of something else, but, alas, that did not happen. – I would have taken no pleasure in handing the children to others.”

Sherlock leaned back after a sudden spasm of pain up his back, “Fine,” he said after another minute of silence, in which Mycroft stared at him patiently with his hands folded before him. “I shall discuss it with John once he returns, and get back to you...”

“No need,” Mycroft told him, smiling contemptuously. “He will be here shortly, will he not? I can wait.”

“I don’t want you here,” Sherlock snarled, clenching his toes when the sensation of movement brought a fresh wave of discomfort in his ligaments. “Leave.”

Mycroft gazed at him calculatingly, “I think it best if I approach the subject, as I very much doubt John wishes to speak with you at present, not after your latest tiff,” he said. “And I would quite like to know the answer as soon as possible, so I may put everything into action—”

“What makes you think he will give an immediate answer?” Sherlock snapped, shaking and sick and dizzy. He eyed the sandwich and glass of water fleetingly, but denied himself it, unwilling to show even more weakness in front of Mycroft than he already had. Sherlock felt pathetic and feeble and extremely, stupidly obstinate, and wished vehemently that Mycroft would take the obvious hint and leave him alone to wallow. He wanted to smash up more of the living room, wanted to let out all the pent up emotions he had been trying to ignore and push aside for most of the day, and he wanted to go over everything that Mycroft had proposed all over again with a clearer and more level head.

“Eat,” Mycroft ordered him suddenly and sternly. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Sherlock gripped the armrests of his chair until his fingernails ached painfully from the pressure and growled, “Get out.”

“Sherlock—”

“Get out!” Sherlock screamed, lurching forward angrily and grabbing large fistfuls of his hair with a manic rushing of hatred and unexpected despair. “Get out! Get out, get out, get out!—”

Mycroft cut off the torrent of words with a sharp stinging slap to Sherlock’s face and calmly looked down at him, “Stop it,” he said, watching distantly as tears blurred Sherlock’s vision and then tracked rapidly down his face. “You’re being hysterical.”

Sherlock blinked, stunned for half a second, and then furtively enjoyed the explosion of tingling and throbbing from the hit, which gave him something else to focus on, “Well, of course I am,” he jeered, roughly pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes in impatience. “I’m sixteen weeks pregnant with twins and I’m a man! Oh, not to mention that the other “parent” happens to be the only proper, real friend I’ve had in years! – How do you expect me to be? I’ve ruined everything—these unnatural, budding parasites inside me are destroying me, Mycroft. Down right murdering me. I’m in almost constant pain. I’m unwell, Mycroft, I’m so unwell. I’m not myself. – Why am I doing this? Why am I letting this happen? I could have ended it all. I had so many chances to do it…so many…but I…I just…”

“Hush now,” Mycroft sighed and flicked his eyes around the room to the door shrewdly before he carded one hand through Sherlock’s hair, “Drink.” he said, bringing the glass to Sherlock.

Dropping his forehead against Mycroft’s side, Sherlock clenched his eyes closed and took four large gulps of water, “…A part of me hopes that they’ll just die, Mycroft – I’m too much of a coward to—”

“Quiet,” Mycroft said shortly, exchanging the glass for the plate and then looking over his shoulder as Mrs Hudson shuffled into the room. “Eat.”

“…Is everything all right?” She asked worriedly, glancing between the two of them and then bustling over to fuss over Sherlock, cupping his face between her sweet-smelling hands, calming Sherlock nearly immediately with the scent and feel of her fingers. “What’s the matter love?”

Sherlock shook his head and tried to smile, but it wobbled and then downturned instantly, “Nothing. I’m fine,” he lied, allowing her to look him over. She paid special attention to his injured foot with a small frown, and he grimaced inwardly and tucked it out of view, feeling ashamed of the injury all of a sudden.

“Always shouting and banging about,” she said with a tut, kissing his forehead instinctively and then combing back his curls, giving his pinked cheek a narrowed glance but speaking nothing of it. “Look at the mess of the place! You’ll be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes – Now, come on, eat the nice sandwich that your big brother has made you—Where are the crusts?”

Mycroft lifted his brow and stepped back politely, “I cut them off.” 

“But the crusts are good for you,” Mrs Hudson criticised, ruffling Sherlock’s hair with a wink and a beaming smile. “They make your hair curly.”

“Mrs Hudson, that’s twaddle. Completely untrue. I honestly don’t know why people continually believe in such old wives’ tales. It’s pure myth. – The crust has eight times the antioxidants, that is all,” Sherlock scoffed lightly, leaning into her touch slowly as she massaged the back of his neck and smoothed one hand down his back. “And my hair is curly enough anyhow.”

“How about I make you a little something?” Mrs Hudson asked him with a cheeky look in her eyes, her fingers working into the knotted muscles at Sherlock’s lower back.

“Something sweet?” Sherlock replied as he inspected her face and successfully held back another wince of pain from his pelvis as he shifted position, pushing into her touch. He could still feel the unborn moving, but the sensation was drowned out and eventually overcome as he paid more attention to the presence of his brother and Mrs Hudson, his mind working as he glanced her over and tilted his head, picking out the smear of flour on her sleeve and the scent of jam and cream that lingered around her. His focus shifted to her feet, noting her shoes and the faint traces of dirt. “Honestly Mrs Hudson! He’s the one in the wrong, he should be doing the apologies, not you, and certainly not with scones.”

Mrs Hudson spluttered and flushed, flitting her eyes at Mycroft and shaking her head, “None of that,” she told him, tapping Sherlock’s nose and then kneading his shoulder with her other hand. “How about a nice marble cake?”

“I wouldn’t say no to any sort of cake,” Sherlock told her as he finally lifted the sandwich to his mouth, glancing at Mycroft as he took a large bite out of it and chewed quickly with an abrupt surge of ravenous hunger. Mycroft smiled at him faintly in reply and memories of Sherlock’s past flooded his mind at the gesture; of Mycroft sneaking him cookies when they were children and Sherlock had been sent to the “naughty” step for misbehaving; Mycroft remaking and repacking his school lunch; Mycroft slicing him off a bigger piece of birthday cake with a discreet smirk; and of Mycroft sharing any sort of sweets he had bought from the local corner shop. “Actually, a cheesecake would be lovely.”

“Cheesecake?” Mrs Hudson repeated thoughtfully. 

“Chocolate cheesecake,” Sherlock said through his next mouthful, eyeing Mycroft and then motioning for him to sit down.

Mrs Hudson nodded and pulled away with one last touch at Sherlock’s marked cheek, “All right – Are you staying long, Mycroft?”

“Course he is,” Sherlock responded before Mycroft could even open his mouth, “Chocolate cheesecake is his favourite.”

“Oh! Wonderful! – It’ll take me about an hour and fifteen to get it done. I’ve got to wait for it to set, you see,” she explained with a smile and a slight wave as she returned to her own flat.

Sherlock let the silence envelop them for the time it took him to finish the small meal and glass of water, and then sighed and ran a hand through his hair before pressing both hands under his chin and leaning back, “Do you think he’ll agree?”

“I certainly hope so,” Mycroft said with a slow incline of his head. “There are really only two options available now – Either he takes the children on himself with my help or he just allows me to take them for a time, giving you both ample time to—”

“We won’t agree,” Sherlock said sharply, pursing his lips and dropping his hands to the chair armrests. “They would not fit into my life. Even in the future. They could fit into his, if he wants them to, but with me, with my work? No. They would be a constant distraction. A weak point. I can’t afford such a limitation, a disadvantage.”

Mycroft arched his eyebrow, “No. I suppose you have your hands full already with John.”

“What?” Sherlock asked in a brisk tone and a sudden glare.

“John is your weakness,” Mycroft explained easily. “It is as plain as day.”

Sherlock frowned and snarled silently, looking away, “He is no such thing.”

“He is your friend.”

“What has that got to do with anything—?”

“You feel for him. Care for him,” Mycroft interrupted, crossing his legs with a sort of patronising and conceited air. “However, you are doomed with him and doomed without him. You rely on him. Need him, in a way. – And so, I do hope that you both come to some sort of arrangement concerning these unborn children. I would hate to see you hurt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled and clenched his jaw, speaking through his teeth and glowering down at his lap, “Is your memory so addled that you have forgotten that I did not always have John at my side? I did perfectly well without him once and I will do perfectly well without him again! – He can take them and leave me, I really don’t care; it would not affect me. All I care about is the work!”

“Good to know,” John said, making Sherlock’s gut clench as he looked sharply up to see John standing in the doorway stiffly. He glared at Sherlock with a jutted out chin and a narrowed gaze, his hands fisted at his sides and hair and shoulders wet with the smattering of London rain. “Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you both,” Mycroft said as he pushed back to his feet politely.

“About?” John asked, tone disconsolate and lined with dislike as he took in the chaos of the living room and snorted with a roll of his eyes. Sherlock felt instantly sick and grimaced at the look John then shot between his brother and him. “Found another prim and proper family to unload the babies onto, have you? Yet another collection of photographs and unneeded information to compact into the already bursting few folders of—?”

“No,” Mycroft said, cutting John off with a tight and annoyed smile. “Not at all.”

John frowned and looked Mycroft up and down quickly, overly suspicious and on edge, his fingers still clenched and his mouth pursed in anger. Sherlock’s gaze caught on the grime on John's shoes, noticing the small dash of fabric hairs that had been picked up as John had walked over a carpeted surface, and then glanced swiftly up his legs, eyeing the folds in his trousers and then the coffee stain in the corner of his mouth with an unfurling of fury. He felt one eye twitch and gritted his teeth, roaming and inspecting the rest of John with an intense and scrutinising sweep before he sat forward, gripping the armrests so tightly that he felt a few of his nails bend.

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock muttered darkly, feeling his chest constrict as his anger grew at the blanking expression that John sent his way. “How dare you!—I told you not to! Do you know what this means? What this does? How much this complicates the entire situation? – How could you do this?”

“Oh! I see,” John barked with a humourless laugh, storming over to stand closer to Sherlock’s seated form, “so, it’s perfectly fine for you to go behind my back and tell someone about this mess, but when I do it—?”

Sherlock grabbed for the empty glass near him suddenly and threw it across the room, jumping to his feet, “My decision to tell my brother is perfectly reasonable!” he shouted, face hot and vision throbbing. “What exactly can Lestrade do for us? How can he help in any way concerning this mess? Other than make everything ten times more frustrating!”

John’s infuriated eyes flickered between Sherlock’s own for two, long, tense, silent moments, and then he frowned, “Who hit you?”

Sherlock blinked and glanced automatically at Mycroft, “John, you cannot just—!”

“You hit him?” John asked Mycroft, pointing at Sherlock’s face. 

Mycroft straightened minutely and lifted his chin, “Yes. He became hysterical – Much like he is now.”

“I am not hysterical!” Sherlock snarled, glowering at Mycroft with a heaving chest and a blurring vision. “Did you not just hear what I said? What he’s done?”

“John has done nothing,” Mycroft drawled, motioning to John with his eyebrows and head. “Look again.”

Sherlock frowned and glowered harder, but returned his focus to John and blinked rapidly to clear his gaze, running his eyes up and down John’s person, “He went to see Lestrade—”

“Yeah,” John interjected with a cold and tight smile, “because he’s my friend, and I needed to see and talk to someone I didn’t feel the need to strangle. I saw him. We talked. But I didn’t mention anything about you, or about this and our current… predicament. Why would I? How could I even broach that subject?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted from John’s face to his hands to his clothes and shoes and back, “But…but I…” he mumbled, slipping back down into his chair.

“Nice to know that you think I’d actively go behind your back just to spite you, that I’d think it prudent to involve anyone else in our issues, without first talking it through with you first,” John said angrily. “I’m not you, Sherlock. I wouldn’t do that to you. God, sometimes I think I should, but that’s not me.”

Mycroft looked disappointed and exasperated when Sherlock caught sight of him, so he lowered his gaze and clutched at his knees, “I see…”

“I won’t lie though,” John went on, his voice dropping as he sighed and cocked his head, “I did think about it, and I have thought about it before now too. Just to have someone else that I can lean on for support, to have more of a backup plan, and to keep you out of trouble. – There will come a time that I will have to tell him something, of course. I can’t just randomly have kids one day and not have some sort of explanation.”

“Ah,” Mycroft inserted as Sherlock slumped and gripped his hair tightly in shame, “Yes, back to the subject at hand – John, I wish to speak to you about an option concerning the unborn children.”

Feeling an overwhelming mixture of humiliation and remorse, Sherlock jumped to his feet, unable to face either one of them, and made his way quickly to his bedroom door, his heart in his throat and the movement of the babies stronger and more daunting that they had been previously. The injury at his foot throbbed, the skin of his cheek faintly stung in memory, and Sherlock clenched his hands into shaking fists.

“Sherlock, you should stay,” Mycroft told him, but Sherlock could only concentrate on the movement in his abdomen, feeling stony and ill and excessively guilty. “Sherlock.”

“Why?” Sherlock heard himself sneer as he finally stepped into his bedroom without a backward glance. “It has nothing to do with me. Does it?”

***

Sherlock knew it was John before he even opened his bedroom door, and curled up tighter as a result, rolling to display his back to his flatmate and ducking his head down, tucking his chin into his chest. He wasn’t completely sure how long it had been since he had locked himself away in his bedroom, leaving Mycroft and John alone in the sitting room, but the sweet scent of chocolate told him that it had been long enough for Mrs Hudson to finish the cheesecake. Sherlock wondered why John was bringing it to him, after everything he’d said.

“Did you agree to it?” Sherlock asked suddenly to break the thick silence, listening to John’s socked feet on the carpet as he shuffled closer. He heard him pause, and then put down the plate on the nearest bedside table, as well as a full glass, but he didn’t speak and only took a deep, unstable breath in reply. Sherlock tried to concentrate on listening out for things outside of his room, through the open bedroom door, but could make out nothing but Mrs Hudson cleaning up and singing to herself. If Mycroft was still in the flat, he was being deadly quiet.

“Turn around, Sherlock,” John muttered. “Turn around and eat something, please. I’ve made you some more sandwiches and brought a slice of cheesecake. I can’t believe you had Mrs Hudson make you this – I hope you say thank you to her later on.”

Sherlock scowled at the bed covers beneath him, “Did you agree?”

“…Yes and no.” John said shortly, closing the distance between them a little more. “Now turn and eat. It’s been almost two hours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed and with a stifled grimace and a wince of pain, he sat up, leaning back against the headrest, “You mean you are undecided? Still? – Isn’t this perfect for what you want?”

“For now I’m undecided, yeah,” John nodded, gesturing idly with one hand and then glancing at the Ultrasound machine in thought, “it’s better than giving them up to strangers, but this is Mycroft, so I just…I need to think on it – Possibly talk to Mycroft more about it at a later date, I don’t know. After all that’s happened before, and what was said between us so far I was…already half in the process of putting everything into place to take them on myself, so I still might do that. You know, seeing as you don’t need me, I’m sure it’ll be fine for both of us—”

“You only heard half of a conversation,” Sherlock butted in, arching his back subtly as he felt the unborn shift and pain laced his pelvis and back from his awkward position. “I’d prefer if you didn’t leave but I…understand if you want to do so and I would…be fine without you.”

John looked back at him, his face blank, and Sherlock tried not to cringe under the weight of his gaze, “I want to check on them – Recline back a bit more and open your dressing gown please.”

The dispassionate detached way John moved and regarded Sherlock made him frown in abhorrence, but he did as he had been asked and opened his dressing gown to expose the smooth curve of his stomach. His abdominal muscles ached sharply as he adjusted the pillows at his head and back, and he sighed unevenly through his clenched teeth, watching through his fringe as John pulled his notebook from his back pocket and moved the ultrasound machine closer. John started it up silently, eyeing Sherlock’s body with a considering and examining expression, and Sherlock felt awkward and oddly timid at having so much of his bulged middle on show.

“Have you measured yourself recently?” John asked distractedly as he tucked a paper towel over the hem of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, the movement brisker than it had ever been before, pushing on Sherlock’s full bladder a little too roughly.

Sherlock glared, “No. Why would I? What purpose does it serve exactly?”

“Could help us calculate how big you might get,” John said under his breath as he shrugged casually and smeared cold gel onto Sherlock’s skin, pushing the transducer down crudely. “Like I mentioned before, all pregnancies are different, as are the babies. At the moment you’re very small for carrying twins, but I think that’s just down to your build and weight – The vomiting doesn’t help matters, obviously—Right, any pain? New? Old?”

“No,” Sherlock lied shortly and turned his attention from the monitor with a clench of his jaw, folding his hands high on his chest. 

John paused and stared at Sherlock, unimpressed and displeased, “Liar.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock hissed lowly. “Merely ligament twinges. Aren’t I meant to experience such things?”

“Yes, but they’re meant to be temporary – You haven’t strained your back or pelvis have you?” John asked as he took notes, eyes flicking from the monitor and back again. “It can be very easy to do so, you know. It’s normal to feel some pain, but if it continues for a few days or gets any worse, you need to tell me—Suffering any leg cramps or anything like that?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No,” he answered in a gush of breath, adjusting his arms and looking up at the ceiling. “…I…can feel them move a lot – Is that an issue?”

John glanced over at him, “No – They’re moving now, in fact,” he told him, angling the probe to dig a little harder into Sherlock’s bladder, “And I think…Twin A is sucking on his umbilical cord—They're definitely boys, by the way. Although you can try and see earlier on, like we did, around sixteen weeks onwards is the best time to be properly sure.”

Looking down at the faint bump of his abdomen, Sherlock swallowed thickly, “I see.”

“What does the movement feel like?” John asked gently after a moment, gazing intently at the screen with a look of pure fascination, tracking any and all movement with sparkling eyes. 

“I suppose it’s like having trapped wind,” Sherlock replied offhandedly, sighing and gesturing with a shaky hand when John glowered at him. “A lot of slight pushing mostly and some bubbling and rolling sensations. I’m not a fan of it.”

“I’d prefer that you felt something rather than nothing. You’re probably feeling a lot of movement because you are focused on them, because you know they are there… Perhaps you’re more inclined to feeling any sort of movement due to stress? Which, by the way, we need to keep tabs on. – Chronic stress lasting for many weeks can reduce the growth of the babies, and could increase miscarriage and premature delivery. However, of course, it could possibly help too. Cortisol, the stress hormone, may enhance the development of the babies’ organs, couldn’t it? Seeing as every organ needs cortisol to develop properly,” John rambled as he returned his attention to the monitor and leaned closer with a twitch of a smile. “You know, despite you still suffering from sickness, they are the perfect size for this far along. Around 10cm. After this I’ll want to measure your waist and check on your weight.”

“Are you telling me that I might be feeling movement because I expect to?” Sherlock asked with a deep frown, shifting with a twinge of pain across his pelvis. “That’s ridiculous.”

John seemed to completely ignore him and instead remained focused on the unborn, his fingers moving confidently and eagerly over the keyboard and mouse, while he angled and pressed the probe into Sherlock’s stomach for a better and clearer image of the two. As John worked quietly and with awe and happiness, Sherlock slowly gave in to the overwhelming need to look at the monitor himself and craned his neck to get a view of the slanted screen, trying not to be too obvious with his curiosity even as his heart rate increased. 

What he saw was not what he remembered seeing the last time he had seen them, they seemed better formed, their heads looked smaller and their bodies a little bigger, and he watched as they bounced and shifted, feeling some of the movement in his middle at the same moment. They would almost be the complete mirror opposites of each other if they weren’t both doing something different to the other. The sight of them made him instantly emotional, bringing tears to his eyes and a hard lump to his throat, and he let out a very quiet but very quivering breath. 

It was different seeing them instead of just feeling them; his mind couldn’t distort and morph them once he had the proof, the evidence, right before his eyes. As the image shifted and the smudges became blurry and then clear again, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. The door he had covered was still covered by a white wall, but the sound of children’s laughter was very faintly present, and Sherlock stepped up close and pressed the side of his face against it, listening with a furrowed brow. For a moment he allowed himself to feel and want them with an intense jolt of his heart, wondering what John felt for them and why Sherlock himself did not feel the same or if he should or did, but just did not know about it. Everything was still somehow, somewhat unbelievable, as he had never wanted children, never came close to feeling the desire to have them, and a part of him still refused to see them as anything else but a failed experiment; whether that was because he was protecting himself from what he actually felt or if he really did feel that way, Sherlock wasn’t completely sure. He tried to imagine what they would look like once they were born and turned from the wall to suddenly be holding two bundles of warm cloth. He looked down at them; unable to see much past the soft folds of fabric cocooning the small bodies within, and jerked when they were abruptly yanked from his arms by Mycroft and John. They both stared at him with disappointment and resentment, their eyes cold and distant and their hands tinged in blood. Frowning, Sherlock glanced down to the sight of his stomach sliced open, covering the floor at his feet with his insides, and he shuddered and reached out to the retreating backs of Mycroft and John as they walked off with the crying and screaming babies.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” John whispered, making Sherlock flinch back to himself, shaking and devastatingly ill. “Their heads are more erect than they have been before, and their eyes have moved closer to the front of their head – Circulatory system and urinary tract are in full working order now. Just amazing, isn’t it? It’s so quick. Sometimes it might not feel quick, but it is. So very quick.”

“John—”

“Those times when I used to wish this had never happened are like a distant memory, as that feeling has almost completely gone now. I have no idea if this is what expecting parents feel or go through, but I want to see them so badly Sherlock. I can’t wait to be able to touch them – Maybe then it’ll feel more real? Just thinking about having them is just—”

“John,” Sherlock snapped angrily, blinking away his tears without avail and pushing on John’s wrist, “I need the toilet quite badly, have you done?”

John looked over and after a few more deft motions of his hand, which showed the babies in a better view on the screen, he pulled away, “Right. Sorry – Come back in here after. I want to measure your waist.”

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered and ducked his head to hide his face, swiping the gel from his stomach and rushing out of the room to make it to the toilet before he made a mess of himself. 

“…I still think you’re overthinking things, Sherlock,” John said once Sherlock had flushed the toilet and washed his hands, and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder briefly as John strolled to the bathroom doorway. “Mycroft told me what you said. Paraphrased most of it, I’m sure, but he still told me – Look, with Mycroft looking out for us, and after not hearing from Moriarty for quite a while now, I really don’t think we need to worry as much…”

Sherlock scoffed and towelled his hands roughly, “You think he’s just…lost interest, do you?” he asked with an arched eyebrow as he glared at John’s reflection in the mirror. “No. He’s “my number one fan”. He’s been interested in me for longer than I’ve known about him—”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock snapped, tying his dressing gown closed and turning to face John properly, “And yes, he hasn’t bothered with us for a bit, but don’t you remember? He’s “so changeable!” He could change his mind and just turn up – Perhaps you should stick that in your stupid notebook?”

John sighed and the muscle in his jaw twitched, “Sherlock—”

“And if he ever found out about this, don’t you think it’ll interest him? Don’t you think that he’ll do something about it? Don’t you think he’ll play another game with me?” Sherlock went on, walking over to push into John’s personal space, backing him up into the wall at his back. “And let’s say he doesn’t care. That he does, in fact, lose interest altogether – We still then have to think about another person like him, or the consequences of anyone on the outside finding out about what’s happened here. As you said before, it’ll look mighty strange that there are suddenly children living here. It’s suspicious. People will first think we adopted, obviously; they’ll think we are suddenly a couple, have been for ages, in secret, and wanted children together or something equally as stupid, but if at any time they were to look deeper, to snoop that little bit closer—”

“We’re not celebrities! It doesn’t matter! No one will care – And no one will even know about them until they are old enough to go to school and leave the flat,” John argued.

“Wrong!” Sherlock shouted. “The more work I do, the more fame we shall get. And seeing as I will not give up the work, then—”

“Then we do it privately. We don’t have to broadcast everything we do,” John growled lowly, staring up at Sherlock. “I’ll stop writing on that bloody blog. Close it down completely. I don’t care! The children mean more to me than all that—Sherlock, we can get around everything you’re bringing up. Every excuse you throw at me, at us, can be deflected, if you only gave us a chance to do it! You can’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. No one can. Not even you and your brother, with your big, annoying brains and your “I-know-everything” attitude! No one can know what’s behind the corner, but I can tell you that whatever it is, I’m willing to fight it if it endangers my children!”

Sherlock span away and moved to lean against the opposite wall, “You’re willing to risk my life, and theirs, on a “we’ll just see” outlook?” he asked with a frown. “Yes, I can’t know what will happen, not with absolute certainty, but are you really willing to risk it? Wouldn’t you rather put something in place to…to…to save them? – I’m not saying that they’d be one hundred per cent safe, no one is, and I get that, I know that. That’s just the way of the stupid world that we live in. But they would be a damn sight safer in the arms of some tediously young strangers! You know this, and you agreed to this!”

“I’ve changed my mind! I can do that, you know,” John yelled before he clenched his eyes closed and took a few even breaths, lowering his voice and softening his tone, “What about this idea with Mycroft, then? You think that’s just as good? Just as “safe” as them living with us and being under constant supervision?”

“Mycroft can hide them. No one will wonder why or where they have come from, or care about them, for that matter – You know how much control he has or can have, it is perfectly reasonable to hand them over for safe keeping until—”

“They’re not some expensive soddin’ artefact or heirloom, Sherlock. They’re children! I do not want to lock my children away!” John shook his head humourlessly and stepped away from the wall, “When are you going to tell your parents about this? Because if you don’t do it soon, Mycroft will, you must know this?”

Sherlock cupped his stomach with one hand instinctively, and then crossed both arms when John noticed, “That does not concern you.”

“Yes it does,” John said with a smile that looked too tight for his face, “We’re basically all connected to each other now, whether you like it or not. Through the children, our families are united.”

“I need more time,” Sherlock snapped, unable to stop focusing on the faint movements of the unborn as he angled his hips and bit down on the inside of his lip in discomfort. “I could ask you when you’re going to tell your sister – Wouldn’t she like to know that she’s an Auntie?” 

“Fine. Fine,” John nodded and then threw up his hands gently, walking away to fetch the measuring tape and then wrapping it around Sherlock’s waist without asking for permission, “Eat that plate of food I left in your room and go and say thank you to Mrs Hudson. That woman is a diamond. She really is.”

Sherlock inclined his head softly and watched John note down the measurement, paying special attention to the bags under John’s eyes, “I…am sorry about how I reacted when I thought you’d told Lestrade.”

“You don’t want your precious work taken away from you, I get it,” John retorted harshly, keeping one hand on Sherlock’s middle for longer than he needed to. 

“No—I mean, yes, but it’s not just that,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head at John’s imploring look. “It doesn’t matter—”

“You were afraid of his reaction?” John asked, trailing after Sherlock when he returned to his bedroom. “I suppose you respect him, yeah? So you don’t want to disappoint him—”

“Go away,” Sherlock said with a scoff, kicking the ultrasound machine to the corner of the room again.

“…I would like to tell him at some point,” John mumbled a few seconds later, inanely regarding Sherlock from the doorway. “I could use a friend – And he’s got kids, so he could give me a lot of pointers—”

“I said, go away,” Sherlock intoned loudly, picking up the plate of food and waiting until John shut the door before he sat down and picked at it, going over everything in his head and rubbing one palm into the curve of his aching abdomen, rocking back and forth with a deep grimace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- The reason why Mycroft didn't bring up the new option at the start of all this, was because of what Mycroft said in this chapter and because Mycroft is not a family man either. He, like Sherlock, did not see children in his future and so did not automatically think about taking on the children himself (well not completely himself, but you get the point).  
> I just want to say this because I feel people might find it odd that Mycroft or Sherlock, some of the smartest people around, didn't think of such an easy and obvious choice - It wasn't obvious to them. Not everything is. They get things wrong from time to time. Not to mention that Sherlock is hardly himself during this story! And part of the reason Mycroft suggested it, is because he realised how much he already cares for the babies. He is smarter than Sherlock in a lot of ways (seriously, he is, it's canon) and I assumed he would be quicker to digest and understand that the children should really remain in the family if possible. And where better than with Mycroft? Not only would he have a better handle on the situation and the babies' lives, but he would be apart of it.
> 
> And I know a lot of you want them to hand the children over to Mummy Holmes, or for her to actually appear in the story - To all of you, I say this: Yes. Yes she will appear in the story, as she did in the series (though obviously her appearance may come sooner or later, depending on the rewrite), and yes, Mummy Holmes will have to know about the children at some point and could very well take care of them. - If Sherlock does not take it upon himself to tell their parents, Mycroft may very well go against his brother's wishes and tell them. (And I know I put in an earlier Chapter that John has parents, but I may change that, as we do not hear or see his parents being mentioned at all in the series - Let me know your feedback on that please)
> 
> A lot of you also want to know why they can't keep them and get annoyed with Sherlock overusing his excuse of keeping them safe by giving them away; this is true, he does overuse it, however, Sherlock is still correct = if anyone caught wind of their situation they would all be subjugated to the media and also there is Moriarty to think about - these are the two main issues that the babies need protection from at present and the main concerns for Sherlock.
> 
> I don't want to give away what's coming up, but Moriarty will come into it and it won't be pleasant, at all, so Sherlock is right to keep bringing up their safety really (even if he pretends he doesn't care half the time.) -- Keep in mind how Moriarty is and what he said to Sherlock, and how easy it would be to burn Sherlock now...


End file.
